


make your real friends

by cassiopeia721



Series: those cunning folk [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter Has Issues, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, Hogwarts Triwizard Champion is a Slytherin, Parseltongue, Past Child Abuse, Protective Slytherins, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Touch-Starved, Triwizard Tournament, Trust Issues, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), if this fic followed canon naming conventions, it would be titled Harry Potter and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, more specifically - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia721/pseuds/cassiopeia721
Summary: Voldemort is on the way back, Harry is sure of it. But that's not all. In order to distract the public from their disastrous handling of the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, the Ministry has decided to bring back the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry is chosen as the fourth champion. Plus, Sirius Black is spotted at Hogsmeade Village, and Harry ends up discovering just how much hehatesDementors. Perhaps most strangely of all is the matter of an enigmatic new ally— or at least, someone who claims to be an ally.edit: now on hiatus
Relationships: Harry Potter & ?, Harry Potter & Slytherin Students, Harry Potter & The Wizarding World
Series: those cunning folk [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031864
Comments: 308
Kudos: 541





	1. a chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry dips his toes into the strange waters of “telling adults about your problems.”

Harry chewed on a nail, mind working furiously. He knew what Hermione and Padma would tell him to do. Didn’t he owe it to Hermione to start keeping his promise, even if it was about a year too late? And wouldn’t Neville, Ron and Parvati all agree with Hermione and Padma? Harry touched the bag at his side, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak. He would be alright. Daphne and the others had assured him that the Greengrasses wouldn’t harm him, and even if they did, he’d packed everything he would need for the summer in his bag. 

_That’s different,_ a little voice within him whispered. _The Slytherins only promised that the Greengrasses they wouldn’t hurt you just for the pleasure of hurting you, since hurting kids in the Wizarding World is a bad move politically. But if you’re already fucking up their political position, maybe just… getting rid of you would still end up causing less political harm even accounting for the backlash they could get._

Harry sighed softly. He wished he could talk to a Slytherin about this. He didn’t know nearly enough about politics to judge things clearly. But he wasn’t sure if he could trust any of the Slytherins with this. Harry knew that the whole thing with the basilisk had been a huge public relations boost for Slytherin in general, and also, the Slytherins genuinely really liked the basilisk. Helping Harry out with the basilisk had been helpful for them, too. Helping Harry out with this, even in so much as keeping his secret, would be the _opposite_ of helpful to them. 

Harry supposed he would just have to try to think as much like a Slytherin as he could. Blaise and the others generally seemed to think of him as a Gryffindor in green, but the Hat _had_ technically Sorted him into Slytherin, so he had to have it within him somewhere, right? 

Okay. Harry had read in a book about deduction during his Sherlock Holmes phase that you should always start with what you know, so. 

Point One. The Greengrasses, at least according to Daphne’s claims and the claims of the other Slytherins, weren’t going to hurt him for no reason as it would be politically suicidal. 

Deduction One: that still left room for them hurting him if they had a sufficiently important reason. 

Point Two. The Greengrasses had adopted him so that the Boy-Who-Lived would be “properly” raised according to pureblood customs, which the Greengrasses were big believers of. 

Point Three. Despite being believers in blood purity, the Greengrass family had bought political neutrality from Voldemort in exchange for some magical tattoo ink specially made so that stealing it would make it useless. 

Deduction Two: Being politically neutral was more important to the Greengrasses than blood purity, otherwise they would have joined the Death Eaters. In fact, it was a _lot_ more important considering how much effort it must have taken to engineer everything so Voldemort couldn’t just steal the ink. Considering the fact that Harry had been adopted in order to further blood purist aims, this meant that political neutrality was more important to them than Harry. 

( _Duh,_ Harry thought to himself.)

Point Four. Dumbledore believed that Voldemort would keep on endlessly coming back.

Point Five. Voldemort had come back once before. 

Point Six. Baking points four and five up, Harry had found an indestructible diary which contained a young, clever, and quite murderous Voldemort. 

Deduction: Voldemort would inevitably return. 

Deduction to End All Deductions: The Greengrasses would hurt Harry if they had sufficient reason. The Greengrasses cared more about political neutrality than Harry. Voldemort was going to come back, which would end their political neutrality. Thus the Greengrasses had sufficient reason to hurt him. 

Of course, there were also some arguments against it, but after all that deducting Harry didn’t really feel like untangling them and trying to find the logic in them. This argument seemed perfectly logical to him, so he would just go on and not tell anyone. 

_But Hermione and Padma_ , a little voice whispered. _You promised Hermione. If you ever want to win their friendships back, you have to start trusting adults with these sort of things._

“Ssstop _thinking_ ssso loudly,” a familiar voice whined.

Harry chuckled. “I don’t sssee how my thinking can disssturb you. It’s not like I’m ssspeaking aloud.” 

“I can _feel_ it,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk grumbled. “Your mind is going fassster than a moussse’sss heart.” 

“Well, in that cassse, I apologize.” Harry ran his hand over her smooth scales as a way to appease her. As he did so, he happened to glance up and make eye contact with Parvati, who, it turned out, had been staring right at him. She flushed and broke their gaze, returning to the game of Gobstones she, Tracey, Ron, Neville and Luna were playing. 

Harry sighed and opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it again. 

“Jussst do it,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk told him. “Then your mind will ssstop racing and I’ll be able to get sssome proper sssleep.” 

“Guys,” Harry forced out, “I need some advice.” 

All the eyes in the room turned to him at once. Ron’s mouth had fallen open, Tracey’s eyebrows had gone up, Neville’s eyes were wide as saucers, and Parvati was grinning excitedly. The only one relatively unaffected was Luna. 

“About what?” Ron asked, his voice quiet as though he thought if he talked too loudly Harry would change his mind. 

“Er…” Harry gnawed on his lip. “You know how last year, the thing with the Philosopher’s Stone, that was actually Voldemort?” 

They nodded slowly, exchanging anxious glances. 

“Well,” Harry took a deep breath, “It turns out the Heir was Voldemort too.” He pulled his knees to his chest, knowing it was childish but unable to stop himself. “Last year, Dumbledore said that Voldemort would just… keep on coming back. Over and over, needing to be stopped each time. Like a terrible game of whack-a-mole.” He laughed bitterly. “Anyway…” Harry shook his head, shook the pessimistic thoughts away. 

“The Greengrasses are trying to be politically neutral, and obviously if Voldemort comes back, having the Boy-Who-Lived as a ward won’t exactly be the most politically neutral thing in the world. I’m worried…” Harry took a deep breath, “That they’ll…” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t articulate the dread in his belly into words. He shook his head. “Based on that I shouldn’t tell them. But at the same time, if I _don’t_ tell them, they still won’t be politically neutral anymore, and Voldemort will target them anyway. They deserve to know, but if they know they’re going to hurt me.” 

Several of Harry’s friends blinked in shock and surprise, but Tracey, who had been there during the Slytherin house meeting, merely frowned. “I can see more than one flaw in that logic.” 

“Let me lay it all out for you, and then you can see if that addresses the flaws.” Harry laid out all the points and deductions he’d come up with, sure that would prove Tracey wrong. At the end, however, she was still frowning. 

“Counterpoint One. Daphne Greengrass didn’t say ‘my parents would never hurt you for no reason,’ she said _’my parents would never hurt you.’_ “ 

“Counterpoint Two,” Ron spoke up. “Maybe the Greengrasses wanted political neutrality because they _didn’t like_ You-Know-Who.” 

Tracey nodded in agreement. “Plus, politics are a bit more complicated than it just being, either you’re a blood purist and a Death Eater, or you love muggleborns and hate Death Eaters. The Greengrasses could be more moderate blood purists, or something.” 

“I don’t think even blood purists want him back,” Luna spoke up. “He’s not exactly _nice_ to the Death Eaters, is he? And it would mean another war.” 

There were nods of agreement all around. 

“Counterpoint Three,” Parvati said. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hasn’t been able to fully come back either of these times. Maybe he won’t ever be able to come back,” she suggested hopefully. 

“Only because I barely managed to stop him,” Harry muttered despondently. “At some point, I’m gonna slip up, and then Voldemort’ll be able to return.” 

“But he hasn’t returned _yet_ ,” Neville said. “You’re speaking like he’s already back, and at full power. But he isn’t, and if the Greengrasses don’t want him back like Ron and Luna said, they might help you to prevent him from coming back.” 

“...I guess,” Harry admitted slowly. 

“At least give them a chance,” Luna suggests softly. “Everybody deserves a chance, right?” 

“Alright,” Harry replied, just above a whisper. “I’ll give them a chance.” 

There were satisfied smiles all around, and Parvati tugged him off his seat so he could join their game of Gobstones on the floor. The rest of the train ride passed in pleasant chaos, and Harry found himself hardly worrying about the upcoming conversation with the Greengrasses at all. 

As Harry exited the train, however, his anxiety returned. As before, Daphne fell into step with him. Her clothing and hair was as impeccable as always, but her face was oddly tense, making Harry reflexively tense further himself. 

It was the same with Lord and Lady Greengrass; both initially looked as well-put-together as always, except for the taut lines of their faces. Harry shrunk into himself slightly, scared despite himself. _Give them a chance,_ he told himself. _Just one chance. Everybody deserves a chance to prove themselves, right?_

They took the Floo this time, which Harry found moderately better than Apparation, but still more miserable than any method of muggle transportation had ever been. Once they arrived, Lady Greengrass cleaned the soot off his robes with a charm, making Harry go stiff and tense and filling his heads full of thoughts of how if Lady Greengrass felt like it, she could cast an obscure torture curse on him right that moment. 

Luckily, Lady Greengrass did not. Instead Lord and Lady Greengrass carried on a bit of small talk about the basilisk, and then sent him off to the rooms they’d assigned him to freshen up a bit before dinner. 

_Give them a chance, give them a chance, give them a chance,_ Harry chanted in his head as he scrubbed his arms with absurdly fancy soap. Once he’d rinsed and dried off, he took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and then headed down to dinner. 

Harry had intended to bring up the matter first thing at dinner, but Lady Greengrass started a conversation about what sort of clothes they _must_ buy Harry, and Harry found himself sitting in silence as Lady Greengrass listed ever more fancy items of clothing Harry _ought_ to own. It only proved to Harry that the Greengrasses wanted him purely as a political chip, and in accordance with this, he devoted most of his attention to which fork Daphne used for which food. What attention was not devoted to that endeavor, he invested into looking for an opening in the conversation.

When none appeared and it seemed Lady Greengrass was determined to speak continuously for the entirety of dinner, Harry resigned himself to interrupting. Lady Greengrass was proposing that she schedule Harry to be fitted for dragonhide as soon as possible when Harry cleared his throat. The Greengrasses all looked up from their plates, and Harry spoke up. “I apologize for interrupting, but I have something that I must speak to the family about.” 

Lady Greengrass glanced at her husband with a jerk of her head like a startled bird. “Yes?” Lord Greengrass prompted.

“I know that the Greengrass family was politically neutral in the last war,” Harry spoke stiltedly. “I wished to warn you that Voldemort will return.” 

Astoria’s fork slipped from between her soft-skinned fingers and hit the floor with a metallic clang. “Father, is it true?” Daphne was looking at Harry, the same question in her eyes.

Harry bit the inside of his lip. Something about Astoria’s crumpled, cherubic face made regret twist his stomach. He had never been so young and innocent as her. “Perhaps it would be best if Astoria leaves?” he suggested softly. 

Lady Greengrass gestured, and a house elf appeared to escort Astoria out. 

“If you no longer wish to have guardianship over me, I understand,” Harry said, slicing his Beef Wellington into as evenly sized pieces as he could manage. “In fact, I would advise it. I attract enough danger as it is.” 

Lord Greengrass blinked, looking like he was still processing Harry’s words. “What makes you believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will return?”

Harry thoroughly chewed his slice of Beef Wellington, buying himself time. “A house elf warned me. He had witnessed… events, that no one else had.”

Lord and Lady Greengrasses’ faces both suddenly relaxed, and Lady Greengrass actually laughed lightly. “A house elf told you this? My dear, I think you’ve been the victim of a practical joke.”

“Perhaps a lark of the young Malfoy?” Lord Greengrass suggested. 

“I believe that my… mishaps in school were the result of Voldemort,” Harry tried. 

“It’s easy to see a pattern where there is none,” Lady Greengrass said. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is most assuredly gone, that is for certain. Darling, I think that-” Harry didn’t bother to listen to her next words, for he’d just realized something. 

_They won’t listen no matter what they say,_ Harry thought to himself. _They’re too stuck to their comfortable pattern of thinking, where the world still is safe. I can only see it because I’m used to my life being dangerous, so a bit more danger doesn’t require a change to my thinking._

An odd sense of peace filled Harry. He’d done his duty, at least- even Hermione and Padma wouldn’t be able to fault him that. “Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he replied in the same light tone as Lady Greengrass, and he rose from the table and left without another word. 

Harry headed to his rooms, his stride clipped. His relief drained out of him like water out of cupped hands. Was his relief selfish? After all, his relief didn’t come from the prevention of oncoming misfortune, just the fact that he could no longer be blamed for it. He could change that misfortune, Harry thought. He brushed the curtains from the windows, his gaze skittering down the winding road through the manor’s grounds.

He thought of Astoria with her soft hands and starched skirts. He would always hate her a little bit, he thought, because he had never been a child in the same way as her. But that didn’t mean he wanted her to suffer- in fact, just the opposite.

“Monny,” he spoke. Monny appeared with a pop, and Harry addressed him. “I will be leaving, as my being here is a danger to the Greengrasses. Would you please lighten and shrink my trunk such that if I tap it will grow again?” 

Monny snapped his fingers, and the trunk shrunk until it was the size of a doll’s trunk. “Monny will come with Master Harry,” Monny said hesitantly. “Since Monny is Master Harry’s elf.” 

Harry paused, glancing over his shoulder. Monny was twisting his ears so hard that his eyes were gleaming with tears of pain. 

“Monny,” Harry spoke slowly, “Answer me honestly. Do you _want_ to come? Would you rather serve the Greengrasses than me?” 

“No, Monny does not want to come.” Monny burst out. “Master Harry is kind, but very strange, and Monny’s family has served the Greengrasses for generations.” 

Harry nodded. “In that case, I will release you back into their service as long as you give me the diary I entrusted to you, and promise not to notify the Greengrasses that I have gone. Remember, if I’m here it’s a danger to them, yes? But they don’t realize that, so if they learn that I’ve gone, they’ll try to bring me back. You mustn’t tell them where I’ve gone, otherwise they’ll force me back and end up in danger.” 

Monny nodded. “Yes, Master Harry, Monny understands.” With another snap of his fingers, he summoned the diary and moved to hand it to Harry. Harry, however, found himself instinctively stepping back. 

“Is it still bound?” Harry asked. 

Monny nodded. 

Harry cautiously picked it up, using his sleeve as a barrier between him and it, and then tapped the trunk with his wand. He stuffed into the very bottom, then had Monny re-shrink it and enchant it to only open after school had started- which should work excellently as Harry already had all his necessities in his messenger bag. 

“Thank you,” Harry said with a little bow to Harry. “I release you, Monny. **So mote be it**.” 

“Harry Potter is no longer Monny’s master,” Monny said delightedly. “Monny hopes Harry Potter will have a good trip. Monny will not tell Master and Mistresses Greengrass.” 

Harry nodded to Monny, then climbed out through the window, and strode off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Harry. So close, yet so, so far. 
> 
> Greengrasses: oh shit he thinks we’re going to hurt him doesn’t he? Oh dear this is stressful  
> Harry: oh no they look stressed they’re gonna hurt me
> 
> Also:  
> Greengrasses: He thinks we’re gonna hurt him? Let’s subtly prove otherwise by talking about all the expensive stuff we’re gonna buy him!  
> Harry: They want me to be more pureblood-y, don’t they. God they’re totally gonna hurt me.
> 
> Also also:  
> Harry: Wow ten is really too young to be hearing about Voldemort  
> Also Harry: thinks fighting Voldemort on his own at eleven is nbd
> 
> I might post another chapter later this week, since this one’s short.


	2. flotsam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the nights to rain, it just _has_ to rain on the one that Harry spends sleeping rough.

The night was dark and it had begun to rain, but Harry’s previously tense muscles had relaxed, and his steps were light as he trekked down the unpaved country road. Being alone had never scared him; it was adults that were dangerous. 

“I ssstill think you ssshould have ssstayed with the humansss,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk grumbled. 

“You’re just sssaying that becaussse you like that they gave you fresssh eggsss for dinner,” Harry replied fondly, adjusting Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk so she was better protected from the rain. 

“Perhapsss,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk admitted shamelessly. “The humansss do know how to treat a sssnake properly.” She turned her head towards Harry. “Do they not know how to treat other humansss properly, like the mousy vermin you were forced to ssshare a nesst with before?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry confessed. “They sssay that they aren’t… but we are naturally at odds. Like you and chickensss are enemies,” Harry added with a slight smile. “Would you trussst a chicken who promissed not to hurt you?” 

Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk hissed with displeasure. “Of courssse not. But you are all humansss, yesss? You are the sssame ssspeciesss?” 

“Yesss, but these humansss only want me so they can ussse me, just like the Dursssleysss did. I did not want to be nesstmatesss with them, but they did not care. Why ssshould I think they care if they hurt me when they have gone againssst what I wanted before?” Harry sighed. “They do not look at me asss a human, I do not think. They look at me asss a tool, a chesss piece to be moved and manipulated.” 

Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk hummed. “I sssmell humansss,” she told him. Harry glanced up and realized they were approaching the bright light of a town. 

Harry removed his Invisibility Cloak from where it was folded around his messenger bag and pulled it over his shoulders. He didn’t think this was a magical town, but better safe than sorry, right? 

When packing this time, Harry had learned from the mistakes of the summer before second year, and packed plenty of magically shrunk and preserved foods, as well as several changes of clothes and his wand. Harry rather wished he’d thought to pack a blanket and a pillow as well, though. And an umbrella. _Especially_ an umbrella. 

Harry scanned the town, looking for a good place to sleep, preferably one with some sort of protection against the rain. Unfortunately, this town seemed to have something against overhangs, and the only decent place Harry could spot was under a nearby wooden bench. 

With a sigh, Harry set about wriggling his way under the bench. He was sure there was somewhere better to sleep around here, but he was too tired to think clearly. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, and now that Harry had stopped moving, he could really feel the cold sinking into him.

Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk’s body felt like ice, and he was worried that she would get too cold, but he couldn’t use a warming charm or he’d be expelled from Hogwarts. Instead, he painstakingly pulled on all of his spare clothes in the cramped space in order to conserve as much heat as possible. Then, he curled up into as small a ball as he could, with Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk’s icy body at its center. 

Despite Harry’s discomfort, he drifted off surprisingly quickly, the stress of the earlier conversation with the Greengrasses and the long walk through the night catching up with him. 

“Did you really think leaving us would give you a family?” Aunt Petunia asked coldly. “You will never have a family. You are no one’s child- the closest you can get is being someone’s tool.” She stepped aside, nodding to Uncle Vernon that it was his turn to say his piece.

Uncle Vernon was drunk. Harry could smell it on his breath- sweet and sour with an underlying bite. He reached out towards Harry, and Harry flinched away from him. “Iesu Mawr!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed in a surprisingly young sounding voice. “Ellis, get over here!” 

Harry groaned, blinking awake to see a teenage face uncomfortably close to his own. “It’s a person, innit? But bits of it are invisible.” 

Harry jerked back, yanking the Invisibility Cloak closer around him and trying to scramble out of under the bench. Unfortunately, someone caught onto him, and he was yanked up by the scruff of his neck. 

“Let me go!” Harry cried, kicking at the drunk teenager holding him. Unfortunately, the teenager simply held him out a little farther, and grabbed onto Harry’s invisibility cloak with interest. 

“That could be right useful,” Ellis said with interest. “What do you think, Morgan? Should we take it?” 

“You can’t have it!” Harry replied indignantly, and yanked his wand out of his messenger bag. 

Ellis blinked at the wand for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Is that stick supposed to scare me?” He asked. 

“No, but I am,” came a hissing voice, and Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk emerged from Harry’s collar, fangs unsheathed and dripping with venom. 

Ellis let out a high pitched shriek and let go of Harry at once. Harry’s right arm swung out in a futile attempt to catch himself, and Harry slammed into the pavement as Ellis and Morgan ran off as fast as they could manage while drunk. 

Suddenly there was an earsplitting noise that reminded Harry a bit of the sound of someone Apparating. Harry scrambled to his feet, clutching his wand in one grubby hand. There was a burst of blinding light, which Harry couldn’t help but close his eyes against. When he opened them again, in front of him was the oddest bus Harry had ever seen in his life.

It was a triple-decker, and painted an aggressive shade of purple. The headlights were purple-tinted as well, and the curtains that covered the windows were a pale lavender. Gold lettering over the windshield announced that this was the Knight Bus, which honestly raised more questions than answers.

A conductor in an unsurprisingly purple uniform sprung out of the bus and began to rattle off a clearly memorized spiel, sounding rather like a student giving a school presentation. This impression was rather increased by the unfortunate spots arrayed across on the conductor’s young face. 

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard, just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening.” 

“’owed you get so muddy?” Shunpike asked with interest as Harry obediently clambered aboard. 

“A couple of muggles cornered me,” Harry explained. “Nearly caught me doing magic. That’s why I called the Knight Bus. Now, how much is the fare again?” 

“Eleven Sickles,” replied Shunpike briskly, “but for firteen you get ’ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’otwater bottle an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.” 

Harry pulled eleven sickles from his messenger bag and handed it off to Shunpike, glad he’d thought to pack a bit of magical money. 

“Now, where’s it that you want to go?” 

“Er-” Shunpike was beginning to pay a bit too much attention to Harry’s forehead for his liking. Harry blurted out the first place he could think of. “Diagon Alley, please.” 

“Woss your name?” Shunpike asked in a way that he probably thought was subtle. 

“Ellis Morgan,” Harry replied smoothly. “Actually, do you think I could get some hot chocolate after all? It’d be good to warm up after all that rain.” He passed him three more sickles and let out a little sigh of relief as Shunpike disappeared to go fetch him some hot chocolate. 

“The land here movesss far too much,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk grumbled, poking her snout of Harry’s collar. 

“We’ll get off sssoon,” Harry promised. “Thank you for your help back there, by the way.” 

“Of courssse,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk replied, and disappeared back into Harry’s clothing just in time. 

“Didja say something?” Shunpike asked, handing Harry his hot chocolate. 

“Ah, no,” Harry replied. “Just clearing my throat. Think all that rain might have me coming down with something.” 

Shunpike nodded. “We also sell vomit bags for t’ree sickles,” he added helpfully. 

“Lovely,” Harry grimaced. 

Shunpike nodded cheerfully in response. 

Harry didn’t want to sit down on any of the beds when he was so muddy, and he had no interest in asking Shunpike to cast a cleaning charm on him when it would only further reveal his unfortunate resemblance to the Boy-Who-Lived, so instead Harry clutched onto one of the gold hand-rails and tried his best to prevent his hot chocolate from flying everywhere. 

Harry was immeasurably relieved when the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of the Leaky Cauldron, which looked in the dark looked even grimy and unkempt than usual. Harry exited the Knight Bus along with an elderly witch in a nightdress who was muttering about buying Dreamless Sleep Potion. After the Knight Bus left, Harry pulled on his Invisibility Cloak and followed the absentminded witch in. 

The Leaky Cauldron was even busier than usual, probably, Harry figured, since it was late enough for drinking to be socially acceptable. A table of scruffy and rather hairy men were eyeing a shadowed table of pale and pointy-toothed women in old-fashioned robes like they wanted to start a fight, and up at the bar a huddle of wizards in scarlet Aurors' robes were toasting someone’s birthday. 

Harry slipped easily through the clumps of people and followed a bar maid carrying a a plate of dirty dishes out a door behind the bar. She turned to go into a grotty little kitchen. Harry, meanwhile, tiptoed up the narrow stairs. There was one big oak door at the top of the landing, but Harry had a feeling that was the bartender’s bedroom, where he would be sure to be discovered. Instead, he pushed open an unvarnished door in the wall about halfway up the stairs, and stepped into a little room evidently built between the two stories. 

It was an oddly shaped little place, and stuffed full of cleaning supplies, but it was warm and dry, and, judging by the thick cobwebs covering everything, somewhere Harry would be unlikely to be disturbed. Harry used a bottle of Casimira’s Choice Cleaning Colloid and an old rag to wipe all of the mud off of him, and then he curled up in a corner with Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk and drifted off to sleep. 

Harry was woken by the sound of someone tramping down stairs above him. For a single dreadful moment, Harry thought he was back in the cupboard under the stairs, and then he recalled the previous night and let out a huge sigh of relief. 

Harry’s stomach was beginning to grumble, so he retrieved a packed breakfast one of the house elves at Hogwarts had prepared for him. A tap of his wand, and the doll-sized dish expanded into a steaming plate of bacon, eggs and toast with jam and butter. Harry pushed the eggs off his plate for Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk, and cheerfully crunched his way through his bacon and toast. 

Then, Harry pulled his Invisibility Cloak back on and tiptoed down the stairs. It was evidently very early; the sun that managed to make it in through the Leaky Cauldron’s grime-coated windows was the clear grey of the pre-dawn. The pub was empty, and the only sound Harry could hear was rushing water and what sounded like the bartender singing in the shower. 

Harry had to tap about twelve different bricks in the back wall to hit upon the right one, but he managed it at last. Diagon Alley looked wholly different this early in the morning; the cobbled street was empty, except for an old witch outside a telescope shop who was beating out her rugs, and a boy too young for Hogwarts who was playing some sort of game with the flock of owls from Eeylops Owls Emporium. 

Harry wandered down the street, breathing in the fresh air and watching as more and more of the shops began to open their doors, chattering amiably to their neighbors as they flipped their signs from “Closed” to “Open.” Up at Quality Quidditch Supplies, the owner was dragging in a broomstick-shaped package, an excited grin on his face as he said, “-think it might be the new Firebolt-” to his neighbor.

Unable to resist, Harry slipped in after the owner, who bounded past the Quidditch supplies in their displays and up the stairs at the back, crying out excitedly, “Oi! Will! If you get down for breakfast on time, you just might get an early birthday present!” 

A minute later, a sixteen year old with a terrible case of bedhead was following the owner down the stairs, an starstruck look on his face. “Really, Dad? You’d let me try it out? What if I break it?” 

“You’ll just hafta be careful,” the owner chuckled, giving his son’s hair an affectionate ruffle. A lump swelled in Harry’s throat, and Harry felt his stomach twist with jealousy. It was just because he wanted to try out the Firebolt so badly, he told himself. 

As soon as he could slip away without alerting them to his presence, he did. The sun had risen by now, and wizards and witches were starting to trickle in, most of them employees hurrying to button up their work robes as they finished off one last slice of toast. Soon, however, more interesting passersby were beginning to arrive, and Harry settled up against the wall of a shop to watch. 

There was a portly house wife coming in to shop before the heat of the day, haggling over the price of newts eyes and scolding her children when they tried to sneak the crystallized pineapple out of the ingredient jars and into their mouths. There was also the pale, lanky man dressed in tweed robes, emerging from Flourish and Blotts balancing a wobbling stack of books that simply _had_ to be held up by magic in his arms. Most interesting of all, however, was the wizard in the black traveling cloak. 

It was the wizard’s wooden leg that first caught Harry’s attention. With every other step, his wooden leg hit the cobblestones with a dull thunk. At one point, he got it caught between two cobblestones with a bit of separation between them, and he yanked it back out with a growl. As he did so, the force of his yanking it out threw his hood back, revealing a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair and a face that looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like- _and_ was none too skilled with a chisel.

The face was only visible for an instant, and then the wizard pulled his hood back on and thumped off into a tall, narrow shop by the name of Travers' Terrific Traveler’s Trunks. Harry stared after him, mind whirring with interest. How had he gotten so scarred? And what had happened to his leg? 

Only a few minutes later, he reemerged. From this angle Harry could now see his eyes, which were strangely mismatched- one of them was small, dark, and beady, and the other was large, a vivid, electric blue, and whirling about madly in its socket. 

All at once, both eyes fixed on an owl flying overhead. It was a rather nice looking owl- a Great Horned Owl with handsome grey plumage, and keen yellow eyes. Still, Harry wasn’t sure why he was watching the owl so intently, his eyes tracking the owl across the sky as it swooped over the protruding chimney of the Three Sheets, dodged a sixteen year old who was testing out the Firebolt his father recently received, and then swept across the cobblestone street to settle right in front of Harry. 

For a moment, Harry simply stared at the owl, but then it hooted at him rather pointedly, and Harry hastily tugged the letter from where it was tied around it’s leg. As soon as he saw the Greengrass seal on the back, he let out a tremendous groan. 

Harry heard a distinctive clumping noise, and his head shot up. The wizard in the black traveling coat was approaching, his eyes fixed on Harry- or rather the owl in front of Harry. Still, it was far too close to being fixed on Harry himself for comfort. Harry quickly pulled an old pen out of his bag and scrawled “Can’t talk now, don’t owl again” on the back of it, shoved it at the owl, pulled the Invisibility Cloak more tightly around him, and then dashed out over there at top speed. 

Luckily, between the speediness Harry had learned through years of being chased by Dudley's gang, and the wizard’s bad leg, Harry quickly lost him. Harry slowed to a walk five or six streets away from the Leaky Cauldron, muttering to Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk, “Next time you see an owl, give it a good scare for me.” 

“Gladly,” Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk replied cheerfully. She didn’t have anything against owls in particular (it was chickens she had it out for) but she liked scaring things in general, and Harry usually disapproved. 

Harry sighed, looking around. He could hardly go back to Diagon Alley with the wizard in the black travelling cloak looking for him, and he didn’t think he should stay in muggle London either considering he had technically already broken the Statute of Secrecy once already today when those drunk Welsh teenagers had discovered his Invisibility Cloak. 

Harry’s eyes caught on a nearby map, or more specifically, on a certain dot on a nearby map. “King’s Cross Station,” he murmured. “Right-o.” 

Harry set off a brisk pace. He knew that the Hogwarts Express wouldn’t be running, and he didn’t want Dumbledore or any of the teachers to find out that he was crashing at Hogwarts, so he’d just follow the track the same way he had done last year. 

Luckily the barrier was open to him. It was a piece of cake to slip through unnoticed by any muggles with the Invisibility Cloak there to disguise him. Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a funny sight; just the day before it had been bustling with parents eager to pick up their children, and now it was empty except for a few forgotten Chocolate Frog cards blowing in the breeze. 

Even accounting for the crash at the end, taking the flying car had been a far better method of transportation than walking. Harry had barely reached the outskirts of London and his legs were already aching. To make matters worse, Harry spotted an all-too familiar Great Horned Owl approaching from overhead. 

Just as the owl moved to drop another letter from the Greengrasses onto Harry, Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk unexpectedly reared up from Harry’s shoulders. Shrieking, the owl shot out of there. 

Unfortunately, about a half hour later, another owl appeared- this one clearly a rental judging by the “Employee of Ernie’s Owl Rentals” tag hanging around one leg. Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk was happy to scare this one off as well, but Harry was getting rather sick of this. He knew that every time he was sent an owl, his address was being transcribed with the same creepy accuracy as his Hogwarts acceptance letter had addressed him. Pretty soon the Greengrasses would show up to haul him away. 

“I ssshould asssk Monny to put up owl wardsss,” Harry muttered, and then recalled that Monny didn’t work for him anymore. But he _had_ freed Dobby, Harry remembered with a start. 

“Dobby!” he called. 

Dobby appeared with a pop, a delighted grin on his face. “Hello Master Harry Potter Sir!” he cried delightedly. 

“D’you think you’d be willing to set it up so owls can’t reach me?” Harry asked. “And actually, do you think you’d take me with you to Hogwarts? I’d like to stay there without the Headmaster or anyone else knowing.” 

Dobby nodded eagerly. “Of course! Dobby would love to help Master Harry Potter Sir who freed him from the nasty Malfoys!” He snapped his finger. “Dobby has set up owl wards. Now he will take Master Harry Potter Sir to Hogwarts.” 

Turns out house elf Apparation was just as miserable as wizard Apparation- but at least Dobby didn’t judge him the way Lord Greengrass had. And Harry was at Hogwarts now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whatever reason, this chapter was _so much_ fun to write. Maybe just because of how delightful of a location Diagon Alley is?
> 
> Also, if you're ever looking to name a product for Harry Potter, it's hard to go wrong if you just pile on a lot of alliteration.


	3. solitary summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry with adult supervision is a trouble magnet, Harry WITHOUT adult supervision is a neodymium-strength trouble magnet.

It was good to be back at Hogwarts, even if it had only been a day since Harry left.

Dobby told him that the only faculty members who actually stayed at Hogwarts over the summer were Hagrid, Filch, and the Divination teacher, a witch by the name of Professor Trelawney. Even Dumbledore left during the summers to deal with business on the continent. Thus, Harry could settle comfortably into the third year boys’ dorm room in the dungeons with only a bit of magic courtesy of Dobby to keep Harry’s presence hidden. 

(Harry really owed Dobby a lot. Without him, the Dursleys would have found him ages ago. Plus, Dobby had even agreed to look after the diary for him, which was a real weight off of Harry's back.)

It was Harry’s first summer away from the Dursleys, and Harry was delighted to find that it was just as wonderful as he had ever daydreamed it would be. Unlike at the Dursleys, he was allowed to eat as much as he liked, for Dobby loved to produce elaborate meals just for him. He could also sleep in as long as he wanted to in a lovely, soft bed, instead of being forced awake by Aunt Petunia’s irritated rapping on his door. And, of course, he could do his homework whenever he liked. In fact, he even could slip books out of the library so he would have even more references for his essays!

With so much time and so many resources, Harry finished his summer homework in only a few days and quickly began skimming the rest of the library. With Madam Pince off at a special summit for magical librarians, Harry could even look through the Restricted Section as much as he pleased! Harry found it particularly enjoyable reading books from the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts staff room- he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at what the usual occupants of the staff room’s mismatched chairs would think if they knew what he was up to. 

Harry didn’t just read, of course. He slipped through the empty castle under his Invisibility Cloak, exploring every nook and cranny. He practiced his star-gazing on the top of the Astronomy Tower, he and Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk sunbathed in the greenhouses, and at one point he even managed to find the storage room holding the boats for taking the first years across the Lake. That led to several glorious afternoons fishing on the Great Lake. 

Nor was Harry all alone at Hogwarts. There was Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk, of course, and King somehow managed to figure out that Harry was at Hogwarts. Dobby was often busy, but sometimes he would join Harry, and Harry made sure to visit Hhtchkk’sssh’khchhk’sl’llsss’ssii’kkhhh frequently. He liked being read to, so Harry would score the Hogwarts library for stories about naga and dragons and other distinctly Slytherin main characters that he thought the basilisk would enjoy. 

Additionally, Harry was in no danger of being out of practice for Quidditch next year, as he could go flying whenever he liked. It was a giddy feeling, having the entire pitch to himself, and Harry got a lot of joy out of trying all of the tight loops and hairpin turns he could manage before he was too dizzy to do anything more than collapse bonelessly onto the grass. Still, he did wish he had someone to practice _with_ \- he tried persuading Dobby to get on one of the school brooms and go through some Chaser drills with him, but Dobby was adamant that house elves belonged firmly on the ground, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, it was these escapades on the Quidditch pitch that got him spotted. Luckily it was only Peeves that discovered him, and he was easily bribed into not saying a word with a few lessons in pronouncing the filthiest swear words known to snakes, basilisks, and all other manner of reptiles. Soon Peeves was whizzing around the castle, hissing obscenities in Parseltongue at anyone who stopped long enough to hear him. 

When Harry got bored, he liked to explore the castle. He had a secret goal to enter all of the common rooms and professors’ offices before the end of the summer. It turned out to be rather harder than anticipated. It was easy enough to _find_ the common rooms, but getting _into_ them was another matter. Harry had already been in the Ravenclaw common room, and it wasn’t too difficult to figure out which barrel to tap to enter the Hufflepuff common room, but the Gryffindor common room had a password. 

In the end, Harry used his Nimbus 2001 to fly around to the windows, and entered the common room that way. He found the Gryffindor common room to be warm and charming, if a bit overwhelming with all of its clashing colors. He liked the Hufflepuff common room much better, with the endless plants arrayed around the cheerful room. 

As for the professors’ offices, Harry had a bit more trouble with some of those. It was easy enough to enter Professor Binns’ office, as his ghost was snoring placidly in his chair as he took his long summer nap. Harry even managed to find the answer keys for all of Professor Binns’ tests, which he duplicated with a simple spell and tucked away for later. 

The other professors, however, had the sense to lock up their offices over the summer. Harry knew nothing about wards or ward-breaking, but he had an entire summer to learn, so he set about learning the basics as best he could with only books to teach him. 

As time passed, Dobby got busier and busier. Harry didn’t mind filching food from the kitchens and cooking it in Snape’s classroom in cauldrons, but he did wish Dobby would visit once in a while. Without anyone except the basilisk and Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk to speak to, Harry feared he would forget how to speak English altogether. 

About a week before Harry’s birthday, Dobby visited rather abruptly with a letter clutched in his hand. “Dobby brings Master Harry copies of his end-of-the-year exam results, and of the supply list for Master Harry Potter’s third year. Dobby will show Master Harry a place in Hogwarts Castle where he might find his supplies.” 

“Thank you so much, Dobby,” Harry said. “By the way, I was knitting you some socks and I was wondering if they were the right size-” 

But Dobby cut him off, shaking his head. “Dobby is very busy,” he said. “Dobby will return later today to show Master Harry where to find his supplies.” And with that, he popped away. 

Harry sighed. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d offended Dobby in some way, but he wasn’t sure what it was that he had done. Shaking his head to dispel his worry, he opened the letter, noting as he did so that it seemed a bit thicker than usual. 

Harry snorted when he saw the Hogsmeade form. No one in hell the Greengrasses would sign that for him after he’d left without so much as a by-your-leave. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it aside, then pulled out the supply list and exam results. 

He’d done worse this year than he had the previous year- no surprise considering that for a couple of months there, he’d been pulled out of every other class to mediate negotiations with the basilisk. Still, he’d managed to pass all of his classes, and even done pretty well in Astronomy, which was easily his favorite class. 

Harry skimmed the supply list. He could probably keep on using his robes from the previous year, since (sadly) he’d hardly grown at all, and he thought he might be able to borrow a few of the older books from the Hogwarts library, but he definitely needed to restock his potions ingredients. He hoped Dobby had a good idea for where to get these things. 

Harry cracked his back. He’d just have to trust that Dobby knew what he was doing. In the mean time, he felt like taking a whirl or two around the Quidditch pitch. 

Unfortunately, despite his love of flying, his mind kept on turning back to the letter from Hogwarts. It had shaken him from the fog that the summer had cast over him, and reminded him that school _was_ coming. Soon the castle would be full up with students again, and he’d be going to class once more. It was an odd thought, since he’d gotten so used to his new pattern of living. 

Daphne would be one of those students, Harry realized with a twist of his stomach. As soon as school started up again, the Greengrasses would have their claws right back into him- and he doubted he’d be able to slip away as easily the next time. 

Harry blinked back to awareness and realized that in his distraction, he’d gotten dangerously close to the ground. He yanked his broom upwards, but the force of it caused him to fall over sideways off his broom, knocking the wind out of him. For a moment Harry lay breathlessly on the ground, checking to make sure everything was alright. When he didn’t immediately notice any injuries, he allowed a relieved smile to blossom across his face. As the excess adrenaline hit him, the smile turned to a slightly hysterical laugh. It was then, as he was laughing from relief, that he felt the tell-tale stab of pain in his side that he recognized from the Bludger attack the year before. 

_Fuck_. He’d fractured at least one rib. Harry pulled up his shirt and peered at the pinkish-red blotches on his side- indication that he’d have one hell of a bruise there in a few days, Harry knew. Judging by how wide the bruising was, and where the pain was coming from, Harry might have cracked more than one. 

Harry closed his eyes, trying to _think_. He knew that at St. Mungo’s they’d given him potions during his recovery, but he wasn’t sure which were for what ailment, and anyway, he still hadn’t managed to get into Snape’s office.

Padma and Hermione would obviously tell him to ask for help, but to do that he would have to reveal himself. There wasn’t anyone who knew he was here at Hogwarts who could help him- wait, maybe there _was_ someone after all...

“Dobby!” Harry called softly. He waited several long moments, then, painfully forcing his chest outwards so he could yell properly, “DOBBY!” 

Dobby popped up a few feet away, looking flustered. “What does Master Harry want now?” He asked.

 _This is what Padma and Hermione would want you to do,_ Harry reminded himself firmly. “I- I think I cracked my ribs," he muttered, face growing hot. 

“Dobby is sorry,” Dobby said, “But house elves cannot be healing wizards. Their magics do not work for that. Dobby can fetch Master Dumblydore-” 

“NO!” Harry snapped. “I mean, no, it’s fine, you don’t need to. I’ll- I’ll research it in the library myself, or something.”

Dobby nodded. “Since Dobby is already interrupted, Dobby will show Master Harry where to get his school supplies.” He looped his skinny arm through Harry’s elbow, and, with a pop, they disappeared to somewhere else entirely. 

It was as large as the Great Hall, but it didn’t immediately feel that way because of how absolutely _full_ it was- every inch of space except for a few cramped, winding pathways were filled up with miscellaneous items of all imaginable types, piled atop of each other in precariously balanced walls. Harry approached the nearest looming mound cautiously, struggling to identify all of the items. Scratched and broken furniture, suits of armor, and chipped statues formed the backbone of the mound, in turn supporting an endless array of knick-knacks- from bottles containing congealed potions, to blood-stained metal weapons, to balled-up cloth of indeterminate origin. 

“How do you suggest I find everything?” Harry asked, eyeing the clutter in trepidation. 

“Summon it,” Dobby suggested. He seemed to have become a bit distracted by a statue of an old warlock, or more specifically, its wig. Harry chuckled, picturing Dobby wearing a wig. He thought it would make for a very fashionable look on his friend. 

Harry had never formally learned the summoning charm, but some of the lazier upperclassmen at Hogwarts used it enough that he had a basic idea of how it worked. After a couple of tries, he managed to figure it out. 

“Accio…” he checked his list, “ _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ by Miranda Goshawk.” To Harry’s surprise, the spell actually worked quite well- several books flew at him. Harry picked out one that was only about ten years of date, even if it did have a suspicious red stain on the back cover. 

Harry went like this down the rest of the list. He managed to get almost all of the books on the list, with the only exception being _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , which Harry thought must be a new release. He had a lot less luck with potions ingredients, unfortunately. There were far less potions ingredients than books, and what potions ingredients did show up were often so aged that there were little more than dust in their ingredient jars. 

“Accio newt eyes,” Harry muttered hopelessly. All of this summoning had stirred up the room’s dust, and he kept on having coughing fits, which made his ribs ache terribly. 

“Accio book on healing,” he added, when the previous summoning brought nothing back. To his disappointment, the pickings for this request were quite slim as well- only a book too waterlogged to read, a brown-stained book that looked to be written in French, and a promising looking cover of a book on healing- unfortunately separated from the actual book itself. 

“Hey Dobby,” Harry said slowly, “D’you think you could take me to Diagon Alley?” He could buy something for his ribs at Diagon Alley, and grab potions ingredients as well. Of course, it would be terribly risky, but his ribs were starting to really bother him, and he _did_ still have that old beanie that had been Dudley’s. 

“Of course, Master Harry,” Dobby replied, tearing his eyes away from the warlock statue with some effort. 

Diagon Alley was a bit busier than the last time. Most people waited until later in the summer to go shopping for school supplies, but there was a notable minority who liked to get their shopping out of their way first thing. Harry pulled his beanie low and slipped through the crowd to Flourish and Blotts, eager to buy what he needed and get out of there as quick as he could, before anyone could spot him. 

After watching the disturbing sight of a mob of hungry copies of _The Monster Book of Monsters_ try to eat the manager, Harry exited Flourish and Blotts with a copy, handily closed with a complimentary belt. The manager hadn’t seemed at all suspicious of Harry's identity, and he was beginning to think the beanie was a pretty good disguise after all. 

Harry was relaxed enough that he allowed his steps to slow slightly as he passed Quality Quidditch Supplies. The Firebolt was displayed out front, and a grinning Blaise Zabini was being allowed to give it a bit of a test drive. Harry couldn’t help but follow the broom’s path with his eyes, admiring the sharp turns and steep dives that it could manage. 

Perhaps it was the weight of his stare, but Blaise abruptly looked down and made eye contact with Harry. After a split second, he looked away again, making Harry breathe a sigh of relief- then Harry saw that he’d jerked his head to indicate Harry to someone else, and he felt a hand fall on his shoulder. 

“Hullo Harry,” Marcus Flint said. 

Fuck, Harry thought, feeling a bubble of frustration burst in him. On top of everything else today, _this_?

“ 'Hullo Harry'," Harry mimicked Marcus in a deep voice. "You sound like you're about to stage an intervention. Why can’t you be all ‘hi, Harry, how’s your summer been, Harry? Did you practice flying over the summer? You did? Excellent job, Harry!’ instead of this whole- _SHIT!_ ” Harry squeaked in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice, the exclamation causing his ribs to give a stab of protest. His eyes had caught onto an entirely too familiar figure in a black travelling cloak, and he needed to get out of here, _yesterday_. “See you at Hogwarts, I gotta go.” 

Harry ducked under Marcus’ grabbing hand and then dipped and wove through the crowd, ducking into the first nearby alley he saw. He flattened himself against the cobblestone wall, listening for the tell-tale sound of the wizard’s wooden leg thunking every other step. When he didn’t hear it, he let out a little sigh of relief and slowly relaxed.

At least, he relaxed until he saw a hag approaching him from down the alley, a leering grin spread out lecherously across her face. “What’s a sweet little morsel like you doing in Knockturn Alley? What a tasty little snack you would make,” she crooned.

“Actually, I’m far too bony for you to taste much of anything at all,” Harry told her blithely. He wished Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk was here to scare the hag off for him, but she was off in the Chamber of Secrets chilling with the basilisk. Harry slipped his hand into his messenger bag, grasping around for his wand. 

The hag cackled. “A clever excuse, my sweet, but marrow is the most delicious part!” 

“My bones are hollow, actually,” Harry told her. “I had a magical accident in first year and they never quite figured out how to fix it.” His fingers closed around his trusty pine and phoenix feather wand. 

“If that’s true, you wouldn’t mind if I checked, would you?” The hag asked quickly. “Perhaps on a finger?” She reached out a gnarled hand. Harry pulled out his wand quick as he could and cried, “Diffindo!” Her finger got lopped clean off, and she shrieked with combined pain and rage. Abruptly, all of her saccharine sweet persona was gone, replaced with a bitter, vengeful fury.

“Oh, I’ll skin you alive for that!” she cried, reaching for him.

 _flay you alive_ , Harry thought, hearing how Uncle Vernon had hissed it to him. _You try to kill Dudley, and I’ll flay you alive as slowly as I can._ He backed up, hands shaking. His breath was coming quick now, making his injured chest stab with pain. Today had been entirely too much- this was the straw that had broke the camel's back, and now he could feel himself shutting down hard.

Uncle Vernon- no, the hag approached, an eager look in his beady eyes. “Ooo, you’re gonna make a delicious meal,” he crooned. Now Uncle Vernon was going to punch Harry, punch Harry and kick him and then burn his wand in the fireplace while Harry watched, Harry knew it like he knew the back of his hand. 

Harry curled into himself, trying to make himself as small as possible so that maybe it wouldn’t hurt quite so much. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” came a male voice, smooth yet with an undeniable edge. “Just _what_ were you suggesting you would do to my son?” 

There was the sound of the hag muttering some sort of apology, and then Harry could sense someone dropping down to squat next to him. “Just breathe, yes? She’s gone now.” 

Harry uncurled himself slightly, although he still couldn’t manage the courage to look up as his rescuer. “I’m not your son,” Harry muttered. His chest was throbbing continually, and he felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, too spent to even manage to conjure proper fear of this new possible threat.

“I know,” the voice reassured him. “But I wasn’t going to just leave you to get eaten by a hag.”

Harry opened his mouth, to say what he wasn’t sure, but the voice cut him off. “We can talk in a moment. For now, focus on breathing.” 

Harry focused on breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. Not because of the content but because I'm low-key having a mental breakdown. 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the new developments in the plot.


	4. emigrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending the summer so far avoiding talking to even a single human, Harry finds he's even worse with people than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted 5/17/2020, edited 5/22/2020 (fixing the French— thanks so much to QueenSerpentine and Shortsandramblings!)

It took Harry some time and effort, but he managed to get his breathing under control once more. The stabbing pains in his side whenever he took deep breathes made things take a lot longer than they otherwise would have, and he half expected the owner of the voice to give up on him. However, when Harry peered out through blurry eyes, the stranger was still planted firmly in front of him.

The owner of the voice was wearing a black travelling cloak, Harry noted with a jolt of fear. He squinted at the stranger’s legs, but the folds of the cloak prevented him from discerning if one of them was wooden. Harry cautiously raised his gaze up the endless loose folds of cloak to the stranger’s face, which, Harry was relieved to see, was utterly unfamiliar to him. 

Not to say it was a bad face, exactly— it was just a bit forgettable. He had a rather aristocratic facial structure, with high cheekbones, and a distinct nose with a hint of a hook. His brown hair was slicked back around his ears in a way that reminded Harry a bit of Malfoy, which Harry had to admit prejudiced him against the stranger a bit. 

In response to Harry’s inspection, the stranger’s eyes flicked towards Harry’s forehead, an odd look on his face. Harry pulled the beanie down over his scar— it must have shifted around during the incident with the hag— and told the wizard, “Sorry about that, sir,” in as earnest a voice as he could drum up. 

“There’s no need to apologize,” the stranger replied. His voice sounded a bit hoarse, and his words were stilted. It seemed to Harry that he had been either putting his voice through its paces to the point of excess, or had not spoken in some time. 

“Are you quite alright?” The stranger asked, offering a hand up. Harry eyed the offending extremity warily for a moment, then scrambled up on his own, bracing himself against the wall. He hadn’t forgotten the way the wizard had been staring at his scar.

The stranger’s brow furrowed subtly. “I understand that your wariness, and in fact I would be glad to see it if not for the illogical nature of its source. Entering Knockturn Alley doesn’t scare you, but a friendly ally, albeit a stranger, does?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.” 

Harry shrugged jerkily. “A hag would just eat me. You might—” he cut himself off. Inform Marcus Flint and Blaise Zabini where he was? Tell him he should have adult supervision, should be back at the Greengrasses? Simply exist as an adult too near to Harry, thus reminding him of the Dursleys? “—interfere in my affairs,” he finally decided.

The wizard’s elegant brows rose, and he laughed, ignoring the way Harry bristled at the sound. Even when he finished, an amused smirk still pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Now that you mention it, the thought does have a certain appeal,” he murmured. “After all, if I don’t interfere in your affairs, you’ll continue on down Knockturn Alley and get eaten by the next hag, no? I don’t wish for my work to go to waste.” 

“No thank you,” Harry replied. “You’re a stranger, remember?” 

The wizard stuck out one hand. “B— ah, my name is Maurice. That is to say, Rigel Maurice.” 

“That’s alright,” Harry replied, dusting off his robes. “Really, thanks for the offer and all, Mr. Maurice, but I ought to be on my way.” 

“How about this offer instead?” Mr. Maurice suggested. “I don’t reveal your unfortunate— _resemblance_ , shall we say, to Mr. Harry James Potter, and in return you allow me to make certain that no nasty hag undoes my hard work.” 

Harry scowled for a long moment, then admitted defeat. “Fine.” He supposed if the wizard meant him any real harm, he would have just let the hag eat him. 

“Excellent,” Mr. Maurice replied, smiling genially down at him like he hadn’t just blackmailed Harry into enduring his presence. “Tell me, what are you here to buy?” 

“Just potions ingredients,” Harry replied reluctantly. He had also planned to try to pick something up for his ribs, but he still wasn’t sure what, exactly, he should be looking for. 

“Ah,” Mr. Maurice smiled, “I know just the place.” 

He led Harry down the alley to a small, out-of-the-way shop with a cage swarming with enormous black spiders in the front window. The inside of the shop reminded Harry of Snape’s office; the walls were lined with rows and rows of large glass jars mysterious ingredients , floating in murky water. As Harry peered closer, he was able to read the labels— Root of All Evil, Wormwood, a whole Lionfish, still moving. Harry pulled down the ingredients on his list, trying not to pay too much attention to the more menacing specimens floating around him. 

Mr. Maurice, meanwhile, appeared to be considering buying one of the caged spiders. Harry, having grabbed all of his potions ingredients, took this opportunity to look around for something for his ribs. 

Unfortunately, this shop appeared to exclusively stock potions ingredients, and not potions themselves, so Harry had to give up and head up to the aged warlock at the checkout counter without what he really had come to Diagon Alley to buy. He had just finished handing over the appropriate amount of gold when a familiar voice from just behind him informed him, “You’ll need to remove the ingredients from the jars, of course.” 

“Why?” Harry asked Mr. Maurice without turning. 

“This method of stasis is so efficient that it renders the practice of replacing ingredients based on age completely unnecessary,” Mr. Maurice explained. “That undercuts mainstream ingredients sellers, so the method is… not strictly legal. I would hardly want you to get into trouble at school because of me.” With a wave of his wand, the jar lids unscrewed themselves, and the ingredients rose out of the jars to settle, neatly arranged, into Harry’s potions ingredient organizer from the previous year. With another flick of his wand, the now-empty jars disappeared into one pocket of Mr. Maurice’s voluminous traveling cloak. 

“Now, is there anything else you need to buy?” Mr. Maurice asked, ushering him out of the dingy little ingredients shop. 

Harry hesitated. “Yes,” he finally admitted. “But before I buy that, I want to know— why are you doing this, _really_? What’s your ulterior motive?” 

“Who’s to say I’m not just helping you out due to the goodness of my heart?” Mr. Maurice asked. When Harry simply stared back at him, unimpressed, Mr. Maurice laughed softly, and ran his eyes down the stores they were passing, thinking. 

“I am here in Britain on behalf of the French Ministry,” Mr. Maurice said at last. “Before I was reassigned here, I was part of a team in India, working with a young basilisk. Unfortunately, my team had little success. I have read that you are a Parselmouth, who successfully negotiated with the Monster of Slytherin. How did you do it?” 

“Er…” Harry shrugged awkwardly. “I really just translated what the other people had to say? Mr. Scamander did most of it, really.” 

Mr. Maurice hummed. “Perhaps a lack of clear communication is the issue,” he mused. “After all, Mr. Scamander was a part of our team, as well. We have someone on our team who speaks some Parseltongue, but we have no way to know how good of a speaker he actually is.” 

“...I could teach you Parseltongue,” Harry said.

Mr. Maurice stared, his mouth fallen open slightly. Harry, realizing that his offer implied he trusted the wizard, quickly accused, “You say you’re with the French Ministry, but you don’t have an accent.” 

Mr. Maurice laughed. “I was chosen for this assignment in Britain precisely because my English is so good. "Rassurez-toi, je parle français couramment. T’es un petit gars suspicieux, hein?” He eyed Harry thoughtfully. “By now I know your way of thinking well enough to know you would not willingly offer to spend more time around me if you didn’t want something in return. What is it?” 

Harry chewed the inside of his lips, staring at the stained cobblestones beneath his feet. “I think I cracked my ribs.” 

“Where?” Mr. Maurice asked, his face unreadable. 

Harry indicated the painful spot. Mr. Maurice put his wand tip to the spot, then waved his wand, muttering softly to himself. Harry felt a strange sort of _click_ within his chest as the fractured ribs fused back together. Mr. Maurice pulled a shallow, round container from one pocket and handed it to Harry. “Put this on any bruising, twice a day,” He told Harry. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, a bit dazed. 

Mr. Maurice shook his head, his face still unreadable. “If you really want to thank me, tell me how you acquired that injury.” 

“I fell off a broom,” Harry answered honestly. Mr. Maurice raised an eyebrow, but Harry simply stared expressionlessly back at him. After a long moment, Mr. Maurice said, “I would have healed you either way.” 

Harry shrugged jerkily. 

“You should head to wherever it is you’re staying—you _do_ have a place to stay, yes? Your side will need time to heal.” 

“And when will I teach you Parseltongue?” Harry asked. 

“I said, I would have healed you either way.” Mr. Maurice sighed, seeing the set look on Harry’s face. “The Leaky Cauldron, this time tomorrow.” 

Harry nodded in response, and Mr. Maurice accompanied Harry back through Diagon Alley. Harry would have protested that there were no hags around to ruin his hard work, except for the way he was handily able to hide in Mr. Maurice’s shadow, and thus avoid Blaise and Marcus’ searching eyes. 

(Why in Merlin’s name were they still bothering to look for him? Marcus must _really_ be in the mood to give a lecture, or something.) 

Harry didn’t want to bother poor Dobby again, so he took the Knight Bus up to Hogsmeade, and then snuck into Hogwarts through there. However, this had the unfortunate side effect of revealing his presence to a grumpy elderly house elf, who explained that he was in charge of keeping an eye on the wards. Apparently, house elves were able to Apparate unnoticed through the wards, but without Dobby to mask it, Harry's entrance wasn’t hidden in the least.

Luckily, the house elf didn’t seem inclined to reveal Harry’s presence to any of the teachers. He mostly just protested the “travesty” that was Harry actually cooking his own food, and he insisted that _he_ would cook all of Harry’s meals and do all of his laundry from now on. Harry was perfectly happy looking after himself, but he agreed to the new arrangement anyhow, both because he didn’t want to be on the house elf’s bad side, but also because it would be nice to have someone else to talk to. 

(Harry would be especially grateful for that decision when a couple of weeks later, the house elf used his magic to save Harry from a second, rather painful, Quidditch accident.) 

Frankly, though, Harry’s attention wasn’t really on his new, bossy friend the house elf. He spent much more time thinking about Mr. Maurice, who Harry was meeting pretty much every day for lunch, now. 

Mr. Maurice was friendly enough, and had upheld his side of the bargain so far. He even cast anti-eavesdropping charms around wherever they ate lunch that day, and would cast a spell on Harry to obscure his features from passerby. He always paid for both of their lunches, and he was a quick study when it came to Parseltongue. Apparently, he’d always been good with languages, and that was how he’d picked up English so well. 

However, for all his surface-level niceness, Harry didn't trust Mr. Maurice one jot. Mr. Maurice wouldn’t explain why the French Ministry wanted him in Britain, except to say that it was supposed to be a secret, and Harry would find out later. Also, for someone who claimed to have grown up in France, he knew a lot about the United Kingdom. He maneuvered through the streets of Diagon Alley instinctually, and seemed to know where even the obscurest, most out of the way shop was. Harry supposed that he could have a good sense of direction, and maybe he’d visited before, but even that wouldn't explain how he knew such obscure shops. It all seemed rather suspicious to Harry. 

And a prior visit wouldn’t explain the knowledge he seemed to have of Hogwarts, either. Once, when Harry apologized for having trouble explaining how to say a particular word in Parseltongue, Mr. Maurice had replied that “Harry was still far better than the teacher that he’d had for History as a child.” Again, Harry _supposed_ that there could be a particularly bad History teacher in France, but it _really_ seemed like that was a reference to Binns. Besides that incident, there was the time Mr. Maurice had made a suspiciously accurate joke about what being a Slytherin was like, and the other time that he’d ordered pumpkin juice with his lunch because he was “feeling nostalgic”. Harry was pretty sure pumpkin juice was pretty much exclusive to Hogwarts, although he supposed he might be wrong. He could theoretically be wrong about all of these things— they could just be coincidences— but he really didn't think that was it.

For Harry, the most damning piece of evidence was the time he’d called Voldemort “The Dark Lord”. The vast majority of the population called Voldemort You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Of those that didn’t, there seemed to be two groups— those, like Dumbledore, who called him “Voldemort” and those who called him “the Dark Lord”. Obviously Dumbledore called Voldemort by his name as a way of standing up to him, but Harry had only ever heard the title “the Dark Lord” as a term of respect. Quirrell had called Voldemort that— and so had Mr. Malfoy, once, though he had quickly corrected himself. 

When Harry asked, Mr. Maurice said that in France, Voldemort was called “the Dark Lord” by everyone— it was just a cultural difference. Harry wasn’t sure if he bought it, but he supposed that Mr. Maurice couldn’t be a Death Eater. If he was a Death Eater, wouldn’t he have just let the hag eat him? Harry supposed Mr. Maurice could be a Death Eater with a long term plan that required keeping Harry alive for a while, but what sort of plan would include being on good terms with Harry?

In the end, Harry decided there wasn’t really anything he could do, and the best course of action was just to continue being wary of Mr. Maurice— which he would have honestly done either way. 

Considering how distracted Harry was between all of the fascinating things to do at Hogwarts and the mystery surrounding Mr. Maurice, it was no surprise that what remained of his summer vacation flew by. In order to prepare for the fast approaching return of students and teachers, Harry had to traverse the castle putting books back in their places, readjusting the telescopes on the Astronomy tower, and returning the boats he’d borrowed to their storage place. 

About a week before school began, the teachers returned, and Harry was forced to stay holed up in his dorm room for fear that the faculty would discover him. It was a boring, lonely week, as Harry was unable to visit the basilisk, and he didn’t even have any books for entertainment. 

On the morning of September 1st, Harry packed up all of his things and popped over to the muggle part of King’s Cross Station. He knew it was rather silly to take the whole ride up to Hogwarts when he could have just stayed where he was, but he didn’t want to raise any suspicion of where he’d _actually_ spent his summer. 

It was only nine thirty or so, so Harry wandered around the muggle side of the station for a while, appreciating the chance to stretch his legs after a long week cooped up inside. He bought a Mars bar and a bag of crisps from a handy convenience store. It was good to have some proper muggle junk food again, honestly. He’d never gotten much of it, as a kid, but the few times he’d managed to scavenge crisps from the floor had been his most treasured childhood meals, and when he’d eaten Mars bars for the first time last summer, he’d found them just as good as he’d always suspected. 

Harry also browsed a little bookshop inside the station. Spellbooks were fascinating and all, but the Wizarding World didn’t have much by way of good, proper, fiction, Harry found. He bought a few new books, then tucked them away into his trunk. Then, at twenty past ten, he headed through the border into the magical side of King’s Cross Station, making sure he got plenty of momentum as he rode his cart through.

To Harry’s eternal embarrassment, he ended up getting so much momentum that he careened not only through the border, but into a cluster of people standing a little bit in front of the barrier. “I’m so sorry—” Harry gasped out, forcing his cart to come to a stop. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m quite alright, there’s no need to apologize,” A witch who looked to be in fourth year said, turning around. As she turned, Harry was shocked to see Hermione— yes, a lot taller than she had been last time Harry had seen her, and a lot more tan, but still the same old Hermione, complete with the same old buckteeth and the same old frizzy hair. And, it turned out, the same old frustration. 

“My God Harry, I thought you were _dead_!” Hermione shrieked. “How hard is it to respond to a few owls? What on Earth compelled you to just up and disappear? Why didn’t you at least write into the Daily Prophet or _something_?” 

“...write into the Daily Prophet?” Harry mouthed to himself, scanning the room for a way to exit. Hermione was in front of him, and he supposed he could technically head back into the Muggle world, but he’d have to get onto the train at some point, and he wouldn’t put it past Hermione to just wait for him right in front of the border. He looked to the right. Oh shit, Fred and George at 2 o’clock. He looked to the left. Oh _shit_ , the Slytherin Quidditch team at 10 o’clock. 

Maybe, Harry thought hopefully, the twins would start fighting the Quidditch Team and Harry would be able to slip away in the chaos? The rivalry between the twins and the Slytherin Quidditch Team was legendary, after all. 

The twins and the Slytherin Quidditch Team had finally spotted each other. Both of them had come to a halt, and they were staring at each other blankly. Harry internally cheered. Yes! Get into a fight! Make a distraction! Leave Harry in peace! 

But no. It was not to be. Instead, the two parties _nodded_ at each other of all things, and then the twins turned and frogmarched Hermione away. Meanwhile, Marcus Flint laid a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder and started steering him onto the Hogwarts Express. 

Oh dear, Harry thought mournfully. They've unionized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Mysterious Mr. Maurice Manifests, Making Municipal Minor Mistrustful
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Especially if they're corrections on my French, because just as before, I do not speak a lick of French.
> 
> French translation for mobile users: "Rest assured, I speak French fluently. You are a suspicious little thing, yes?"


	5. fire and ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks with the upperclassmen, and meets his first dementor.

The Slytherin Quidditch team fell into step around him, Marcus’ hand staying firmly on his shoulder like he expected Harry to bolt. Harry stared at the ground, a humiliated flush rising to his cheeks. He felt like a child being embarrassed by a public scolding— an honestly unfamiliar feeling, as the Dursleys had always kept their punishments private for fear of gossip. 

Marcus Flint ushered Harry into a nearby compartment, instructing the other members of the Quidditch team to fetch Gemma Farley and a few other high status upperclassmen. They exited, and Harry was left perched awkwardly on one of the compartment’s seats, Adrian Pucey and Marcus Flint sitting across from him. 

“I don’t see why this is any of your business,” Harry said at last. “I haven’t impacted Slytherin House with my actions, and I haven’t done anything to break any of Hogwarts’ rules.” Except for secretly spending the summer holed up there, but Harry didn’t intend to mention that. “This is a…” he grimaced, “...family matter between the Greengrasses and I. Frankly I’m not even sure why any of you are aware of it.” 

“It ceased to be a family matter after you set up owl wards,” Adrian Pucey replied. “No one had any idea where you were, and even if you were still alive. Honestly this is the kind of issue the Minister should be dealing with—” (Harry scoffed in disbelief) “—But I assume you would prefer that we leave the adults out of it.” He gave Harry a pointed look. 

Harry didn’t have anything to say to that. He had to admit that being lectured by the upperclassmen was far preferable to being lectured by an adult, who would have more power over him and thus be far more threatening. 

“I think Mr. Potter may be missing out on an important detail here,” came a voice from near the door. Harry glanced over and unhappily noted that the upperclassmen had arrived. The only small mercy was that in the light of the size of the compartment, it was only a few of them— just Gemma Farley, Sorsen Bishop, and Niore Oleander. Harry had the distinct sense they had been chosen because the other upperclassmen believed they were the best at managing him. The thought raised in him a momentary, rather dangerous impulse to purposefully be as _un_ manageable as possible, but he (mostly) quashed it.

“Mr. Potter, you are aware that Sirius Black is on the loose, no?” Gemma Farley continued. 

Harry nodded slowly. He’d— not exactly _forgotten_ about that, but it certainly hadn’t been at the top of his head. 

“Sirius Black was spotted in Hogsmeade village shortly before your birthday, shouting incomprehensible threats against you,” Gemma Farley informed him. “The Daily Prophet published several articles about this, and requested that you send some sort of confirmation of life, which need not reveal your location.” 

“...I don’t read the Daily Prophet,” Harry stated weakly. 

Sorsen Bishop concealed a laugh into his hand, probably remembering the time Harry had set a particularly unpleasant article from the Daily Prophet on fire— or the infamous incident wherein Harry had declared “fuck the Daily Prophet” in the middle of Transfiguration. 

“You may think that your actions do not effect Slytherin House, but they do,” Niore Oleander added crisply. “As much as you may try to shrink into the shadows, you are a prominent member of our house, and your actions reflect on the rest of us. One of Slytherin House’s foremost values is self-preservation, something which you seem to have no grasp of.” 

“If I may,” Adrian spoke up cautiously, “I believe this repeated issue stems from a misunderstanding. Harry does not understand the extent to which others value his well-being. In his defining experiences, others, especially figures in authority, have been the cause of his problems and not their solutions. I do not believe that Harry is lacking in self-preservation; it is only that his experiences have twisted his perception so that despite his motivation being self-preservation, his actions end up being entirely counterintuitive.” 

“Insightful,” Sorsen Bishop mused. “Just as magical cruelty against young children can often lead to issues with the magical core’s integration of harmless healing magic, the same thing can happen in the mind of a young wizard.” 

Adrian nodded. “Precisely.” 

Gemma Farley turned her thoughtful gaze to Harry. Harry tried his damnedest to disappear into his seat. 

“I think you are right, Mr. Pucey,” Farley said at last. “We must endeavor to help Mr. Potter gain back his trust for authorities, I think, so that he can cease to endanger himself in his attempts at self-preservation.” 

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Farley’s gaze. Although it was not particularly sharp or cutting, he had the terrible feeling she was trying to look through him and into his soul, trying to peel back his layers and find the most vulnerable parts of him.

It was like the Greengrasses, Harry thought unhappily. They wanted the kind of trust Harry would give a family— the trust to unguardedly talk to them about his life without censoring himself, and to ask for help on the assumption he would actually receive _help_ and not _harm_ — but they weren’t giving Harry the things he would get from a real family. They weren’t keeping their promises to him, or showing up for him consistently, or respecting his wishes.

Except, Harry realized with a frown, the Slytherins at least _were_ doing some of that. They had kept their promise about helping with the basilisk, and they had (in their actions if not their words) respected that Harry didn’t want to solve the problem of the basilisk by killing Hhtchkk’sssh’khchhk’sl’llsss’ssii’kkhhh, although that was probably more for selfish reasons than anything else. 

But they hadn’t respected that he didn’t want bodyguards, and they hadn’t respected his claim of not being the Heir of Slytherin, even when he produced evidence to prove it. 

“Mr. Potter,” Gemma Farley spoke deliberately, “What could Slytherin House do to gain your trust?” 

“Respect my wishes,” Harry replied, decision made. “Don’t dishonor the upperclassmen by forcing them to act as glorified bodyguards.” 

“I do not think any of the upperclassmen see ensuring your well-being as a dishonor,” Sorsen Bishop began, but Farley cut him off with a single gesture. 

“We agree,” Gemma Farley replied. She paused a moment, seeming to savor the shock that Harry knew was visible on his face. “On one condition— that you report any danger you experience to the upperclassmen. If it becomes clear you were knew you were endangered and still did not request help, the guards return.” 

Harry frowned. The entire point of his request that his safety was his concern, and _his concern only_. At the same time, though, judging by Oleander’s disapproving expression, this was probably the best he was going to get. “I agree,” he said at last. “Now, may I go?” 

“You may,” Gemma Farley answered. 

Harry exited, pulling his Invisibility Cloak over himself to avoid anymore unwanted social interactions. He leaned up against the other side of the corridor, taking deep, steadying breaths and waiting for the tingling in his fingers to pass. 

The low rumble of conversation was still audible through the compartment door, and Harry approached to hear better. 

“You can't seriously believe that he will ask for help?” Marcus Flint asked, sounding more tired than anything. 

“It is not very likely,” Gemma Farley admitted. “But this will help him see that we are fair and willing to listen to his concerns, and it will hopefully reveal the necessity of the guards to him.”

“It will legitimize them,” Niore Oleander agreed. “He made an agreement, and if he breaks it, he won’t be able to protest the renewal of the guard detail, as it was his choice to break the agreement.” 

Harry stepped away, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. As much as he hated to admit it, it was probably best to abide by— or at least _act_ like he was abiding by— the terms of the agreement. The thought brought a shudder of fear down his spine, and Harry hurried down the corridor. 

Harry found an empty compartment, and locked it against any curious passersby. Then he settled into the far seat, curling into himself and focusing on breathing steadily. In an odd way, he found it helped to imagine that Mr. Maurice was standing in front of him, making sure that no one could reach him while he caught his breath. 

When Harry had recovered his breath, he pulled out the junk food he’d bought on the muggle side of King’s Cross Station. He knew he should probably go visit his friends in whatever compartment they’d claimed, but after the encounter with the Slytherin upperclassmen, he felt far too drained to deal with another lecture, so instead he settled in to take some time for himself and decompress. 

At first, too spent even for reading, he watched the soothing motion of the landscape rolling by and absently stroked Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk, who was napping curled around his shoulders. As they went north, the landscape grew darker and wilder. The same thing happened above as the picturesque clouds of earlier gathered together and, like clean cotton balls in the grubby hands of a child, grew grimier and grimier incrementally. 

Mid afternoon, it began to rain. At first the rain was gentle and soothing, but it steadily grew harder, until Harry could even hear distant claps of thunder under the noise of the train’s churning pistons. Harry began to feel distinctly in the mood for a mystery novel, and he pulled out _A Murder on the Orient Express_ by Agatha Christie. 

The lanterns flickered to life as Harry read through the first chapter. Outside, the rain hammered, the wind roared, and the thunder clashed like the great claps of a gigantic cymbal, and Harry almost began to feel like the storm outside was more thrilling than the book itself. 

Harry had just read that the Orient Express had gotten stuck in a snowdrift when the Hogwarts Express began to slow. Although the storm made the view out the window appear dark as night, he knew that it was only afternoon and not yet evening. Perhaps it was due to Harry’s choice of reading, but he was beginning to feel a distinct sense of unease. 

Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk stirred from her place on Harry’s shoulders. “Sssomething approachesss,” she hissed sleepily. 

The lanterns abruptly went out, and Harry slipped a bookmark into _A Murder on the Orient Express_. “Lumos.” 

Oddly, the charm seemed harder to sustain than usual. It wavered like the dark was a physical force pressing down on it and trying to extinguish it. It also seemed to Harry like the air was growing chillier. A creeping _something_ , cold and darkness or perhaps both, seemed to have entered the train. 

“I feel it,” Harry agreed. “Thisss cold, thisss darknesss, it isss not natural.” 

The train came to an abrupt stop, and it was only through the timely application of a Levitation Charm that Harry wasn’t hit in the head by his falling trunk. With a wave of his wand, Harry directed his trunk to lean against the compartment door.

The cold was impossible to ignore now, and the lit tip of Harry’s wand struggled against the dark for one more moment, then was extinguished. Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk huddled against Harry for warmth, her fear evident in her complete stillness. Motivated by a desire to protect his friend, who was usually so fearless, Harry hissed, “Incendio!” with as much force as he could manage. 

A stream of flames burst from his wand. Harry directed them to ring the compartment door as an added layer of protection. Though they wavered in the face of the cold and the dark, Harry found that they stood up far better than the light from his wand-lighting charm had. 

Underneath the sound of the crackling flames, Harry could hear a rhythmic, rattling gasp, and the scraping footsteps of the _Thing_ drawing closer. With each indrawn breath, the air grew colder and the flames grew dimmer, as though whatever it was was sucking the heat and light and hope from the very air. 

The locked compartment door shook as though someone was trying to force it open, and Harry shivered violently in time with it. Frost was spreading through him, first through the tips of his fingers, until it reached his very core. There was nothing and no one but the cold— no family, no friends, no hope. They had left him, had abandoned him to freeze in this endless iciness, and it was his fault, his own fault… 

_I know your heart,_ the cool voice of truth whispered. _I know your heart and I know the truth. To love you is a curse, and whoever dares to try will end up hating you and destroying you… your parents tried, and it killed them…_ Harry could the high, terrible screams of a woman, pleading— pleading, he knew in his frozen core, to be allowed to live despite the sin of loving him. 

_The Dursleys tried, once,_ the cool voice of truth continued, _But you in your freakishness and inadequacy turned their love to hatred…_ Harry could smell the scent of salt and cinnamon as his wand burnt, and the tang of blood and adrenaline clung to his lips. He felt the phantom pain of that first punch slamming into his nose, the revelation of it shattering that last tattered shred of trust in his family. 

_You must never allow anyone to try to love you, for either it will destroy them, or they will destroy you, and it will be your own fault…_

“My fault, my fault, my fault,” Harry chanted silently through frozen lips, rocking. His tears were ice on his cheeks.

_Goood,_ the icy voice purred in satisfaction. 

Abruptly the cold and dark lessened, with a feeling like a great weight being lifted from Harry’s chest. Harry blinked, and felt with trembling fingers that there were tears frozen to his cheeks. The flames had long since been extinguished, but the compartment door was still locked, his trunk still leaned up against it. Harry touched Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk with cautious fingers (for some reason the old first year fear of burning every living thing he touched was rearing its ugly head) and found that she was alright. 

“You alright in there, laddie?” A gruff voice asked from beyond the door.

Harry didn’t respond. Some part of his core was still frozen, and he didn’t think he would be able to speak for some time. 

After a long moment, the person outside lowered themselves with a grunt and sent a bar of chocolate sliding through the crack under the compartment door. Then, with a thudding sound substituting for a foot fall every other step, they clumped away. 

Harry stared blankly, not able to get up and take the chocolate bar. The lanterns flickered back on, and the train slowly began moving again, the pistons churning, but Harry didn’t move from where he sat. Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk slipped from his shoulders, and Harry grasped instinctively out for her, but then he recalled the voice of truth. Would he hurt Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk too, with his love? 

Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk approached, the chocolate held between her fangs. “Eat,” she commanded sternly, and Harry obediently took a bite. 

The chocolate felt warm in his mouth, and as he swallowed it, Harry felt that same warmth trailing down his throat. He glanced at his hands, and he saw they were no longer swollen and red with cold. The frozen tears on his cheeks were melting and dripping, salty, down his chin. With every bite Harry grew warmer, until the only cold thing left in him was a tiny shard of ice still stuck in his very core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this a bit early, since I'm going on a (socially distanced, I assure you) day trip tomorrow morning. It's a bit short, so I might also post another chapter around Sunday or Monday, but that depends on if I write it another chapter by then or not. 
> 
> Seeing all of your speculation on Mr. Maurice was positively _delicious_. I would have talked about that more in the comments, but I don't want to give too much away, so... *zips lips and throws away the key* 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.


	6. start-of-term reports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry already isn't feeling exactly at the top of his game, and the announcements Dumbledore is making aren't exactly helping.

Harry ate the last of his Mars bars and then, after checking once more than the compartment door was locked, allowed himself to drift off into an exhausted sleep, trusting Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk to wake him if there was trouble. 

He was woken some time later as the Hogwarts Express came screeching to a halt. Although Harry didn’t think the Thing was likely to have returned, he still checked through the window to be certain they really were at Hogsmeade station. Only then did he change, remove his trunk from the door, and exit. As such, he ended up leaving the Hogwarts Express rather after the other students. 

It was probably a good thing. Harry still felt feeble and chilly, and he was glad he was able to walk as slowly as he liked without fear of anyone seeing his weakness. Harry reached the end of the platform just as Hagrid and the first years were beginning to row across the lake, and by the time he’d climbed the slippery mud track to where the transportation for the older students was, everyone else had already went on ahead. 

Harry climbed into the single remaining stagecoach, collapsing onto the seat with a sigh of relief. The coach set off, moving slowly as though to avoid jolting Harry too much. Despite the occasional bump, Harry found the ride smooth enough that his heavy head dipped and he once again drifted off— only to be jolted awake a few minutes later by the feel of ice creeping from the shard stuck in his heart, and a dizzying wave of nausea that nearly swallowed him whole. Harry instinctively knew that he was passing another one of those dreadful Things. 

The carriage sped up, and the terrible pressure mercifully lessened. Harry whispered “Incendio”. He felt his heart lighten slightly at the warmth and heat of it. Harry focused on maintaining the tremulous lick of flame, trying to block out the lingering nausea and ice that still clung to him. 

Soon, the carriage swayed to a halt, and, taking a bracing breath, Harry extinguished the flame with a flick of his wrist and stepped heavily out of the comforting refuge of the carriage. 

As Harry exited the carriage, he was greeted by a familiar drawl. “Well, look who it is. The famous Harry Potter, returning to Hogwarts after all. I almost thought you wouldn’t show up, and I’d have no one to make me look better by comparison.” 

“You know me,” Harry replied carelessly, “I live to disappoint.” A yawn so huge that he felt his jaw pop overtook him. Blinking hard to stay alert, Harry shouldered his messenger bag and began the trek up to the castle. 

Malfoy fell into step beside him. “You know, Dumbledore insisted that according to his instruments, you were perfectly safe, but no one with a brain in their head would trust your safety to just _Dumbledore_.” 

Harry chuckled softly. Yes, trusting Dumbledore farther than you could throw him was a rather foolish business, he knew from long experience. His chuckle threatened to turn into another yawn, and Harry clenched his jaw to stifle it.

“My father was an integral part of the search, you know,” Malfoy continued. “He funded quite a bit of it from his own coffers.” 

“Er,” Harry stuttered. He had the distinct impression that Mr. Malfoy rather _liked_ him, which Harry found deeply confusing, as he was pretty sure in any sane world that functioned the way it was supposed to, Mr. Malfoy would hate his guts. “I would say thank you, but I didn’t really want to be found? I hope your father finds more enriching methods of spending his money in the future.” 

Malfoy laughed, long and loud. “I will tell my father you said that,” Malfoy replied with a smirk when he recovered himself. “I should warn you, he will probably find it hilarious and resolve to spend more money on such matters in the future.” 

Harry's brain was too fuzzy to think of any good arguments. He just shrugged one shoulder and flicked his eyebrows up in a way that suggested, _his loss_. If Malfoy Sr. wanted to waste all of his money trying to figure out where Harry spent his summers, that was his business, and hey, at least he wasn't spending it hiring someone to make Mr. Weasley's life miserable or funding racist policies.

They climbed the steps and entered through the huge oak front doors. The Entrance Hall was empty; the Sorting must have already started. “We had better get in soon,” Malfoy mused as they crossed it. “I wouldn’t want to miss the announcement.”

Hearing Harry’s soft, involuntary noise of confusion, Malfoy smirked. “Oh, you haven’t heard? My father told me about it ages ago... heard it from Cornelius Fudge himself.” 

Malfoy seemed to be waiting for Harry to ask him what the announcement would be, but Harry hardly saw the point. He’d be finding out in a matter of minutes anyway, wouldn’t he? 

They entered the Great Hall. It was much warmer in here, and Harry felt tension he hadn’t noticed acquiring seeping out of his muscles.

As predicted, the Sorting was already in full swing. Harry tried to move as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, but Malfoy seemed determined to make his late entrance a _fashionable_ one, and his strutting drew the attention of more than a few people. 

Harry made eye contact with Ron and gave a little eye roll in Malfoy’s direction. Ron grinned in agreement. Harry smiled back, glad for Ron’s easy, uncomplicated friendship. 

Harry directed a wave to Parvati and Neville as well, and then to Luna over at the Ravenclaw table. He would have joined one of their tables— probably with Luna to avoid any possibility of scolding— but he figured the Slytherins were already irritated enough with him, so he reluctantly followed Malfoy to the Slytherin table, sliding into a seat between Tracey and Blaise. 

“Where _were_ you?” Blaise asked. Harry wasn’t sure if Blaise was talking about where he had been during the Sorting, or over the summer. Perhaps even Blaise wasn’t sure. It hardly mattered either way, since Harry just shrugged in response. 

The Sorting ended, and Dumbledore stood to speak. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I unfortunately have more than a few things to say to you all, but I will nonetheless try to make this as brief as possible.” 

Harry hoped that Dumbledore wasn’t lying about that. His eyelids felt perilously heavy, and if he didn’t get some dinner, _soon_ , he would probably fall asleep right then and there on the Slytherin table. 

“Firstly, as you will all be aware of after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

Harry suppressed a shudder, and a jolt of adrenaline abruptly brought a new wave of energy to him. _Dementors_. Were those what the Things from earlier were called? Why in Merlin’s name would the Ministry be stationing them at Hogwarts? Harry had learned from the Ministry’s actions regarding the basilisk last year that they had a tendency to make some rather ill-advised decisions, but this was on a whole new level. 

Dumbledore paused, casting a stern look around the Great Hall. “They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises— or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly. Harry kept his face smooth and blank as a marble statue. Dumbledore didn’t need to worry— Harry intended to keep as far away from the Things as was humanly possible.

“It is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses,” He warned, and Harry felt the ice in his core spread up his chest to momentarily choke his lungs. “I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the Dementors,” he said. 

Harry resisted the urge to glance at Gemma Farley. Surely the upperclassmen couldn’t expect him to report something as minor as a slight scare? He hadn’t _really_ been in danger— all the Thing had done was say a few cruel things and make the air a bit cold. It had basically been the equivalent of Draco Malfoy with a freezing charm. Nothing to worry about, Harry told himself as he viciously stifled another yawn.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” 

Harry glanced up sharply, jolted out of his thoughts. He raised his eyebrows at Malfoy. Why would he be smug about _this_? Sure, it was a disappointment to Harry, and Malfoy loved seeing Harry disappointed, but Malfoy loved Quidditch as much, if not more, than he loved screwing with Harry. 

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year,” Dumbledore continued. “I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—” 

Dumbledore was interrupted by the loud bang of the doors of the Great Hall slamming open, revealing a familiar stranger in a black traveling cloak. He clumped slowly across the cobblestones of the Great Hall, his electric blue eye turning back and forth in its socket, methodically scanning the assembled students. It abruptly settled on Harry, who shrunk into himself and hoped that the wizard hadn’t really properly seen him at Diagon Alley either of those times. The wizard’s eye lingered on him for a long moment, and then it flicked back to point straight ahead, and he ceased to scan the Hall. 

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody,” said Dumbledore brightly, pulling out a chair at the Staff Table. _Well fuck,_ Harry noted glumly. Who wants to bet this Defense teacher would follow the time honored tradition and try to kill him, and/or be mind-numbingly incompetent? Hey, at least his entrance had startled Harry back into proper wakefulness. That was something, at least.

“Professor Moody is one of two new teachers at Hogwarts this year,” Dumbledore continued cheerily. “Along with the addition of the venerable Professor Moody—” The eyes of the Great Hall collectively swiveled to stare at Professor Moody, who was sniffing a sausage with great suspicion, “—I must announce that our Care of Magical Creatures professor, Professor Kettleburn, has retired in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. His place will be filled by our very own Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.” 

Harry clapped politely, exchanging a smile with Hagrid, who had turned tomato red and was futilely attempting to hide his enormous grin. Harry would never express this to Hagrid, but he did secretly hold some reservations on Hagrid’s new station. He recalled all too well the incident with the Norwegian Ridgeback back in first year. He’d managed to safely get Ahhhrhhk out of the castle, but it had been quite stressful to orchestrate, and he still less-than-fondly remembered the frustration of trying to persuade Hagrid that no, _dragons should not be raised in wooden huts._

Harry could only hope that Hagrid had gained a greater sense of other wizards’ fragility when it came to dangerous creatures, but considering Harry was almost certain Hagrid had been the one who assigned that biting book, he wasn’t about to hold his breath. 

Professor McGonagall leaned in and whispered something in Dumbledore’s ear, and Dumbledore straightened, a brilliant grin lighting up his face. “Ah yes! The announcement! Before I was distracted by Professor Moody’s rather dramatic arrival—” He winked Moody’s way. Moody did not wink back. “—I was about to announce that this year, Hogwarts will have the great honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century- _The Triwizard Tournament_!” 

There was a great gasp through the Great Hall, although the Slytherins were too reserved (and well informed) to act very shocked. Malfoy shot a smug look at Harry. Harry mouthed back, his face utterly deadpan, “The _what?_ ” and watched in satisfaction as Malfoy’s expression of glee crumpled. In a happy accident, the fact that Harry was noticeably covering a yawn with one hand furthered Malfoy’s reaction most agreeably.

Dumbledore started to explain the tournament. Harry’s eyes narrowed at the mention of a death toll, but he seemed to be the only one paying it any mind— the Gryffindors were a captive audience, and even the Slytherins’ eyes gleamed at the description of eternal glory. Harry resisted the urge to snort. And the upperclassmen said _he_ needed more self-preservation. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed even further at the mention of an “impartial judge”. Did they have a choice in whether or not they participated? Harry had a terrible intuition (although the upperclassmen, as well as most other normal people, would probably call it paranoia) that this so-called “impartial” judge was going to find that some bribes (or threats) were too persuasive to refuse. A deadly tournament, after all, would be a clever way to get rid of a certain pesky third year without it seeming too suspicious— certainly less suspicious than the bludger last year had been, that was for sure. 

Harry flicked his eyes to Mad Eye Moody at the staff table. Moody seemed far too interested in Harry, and he’d already had one DADA professor try to kill him before. Then again, he hadn’t been there for the bludger attack… Harry supposed he could have more than one person out to murder him at the same time, which was such a depressing thought that Harry forcibly turned his attention back to Dumbledore’s speech. 

“—the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year,” Dumbledore was saying. “Only students who are of age— that is to say, seventeen years or older— will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. I will be personally ensuring no underage students hoodwink our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts' Champion.”

Harry’s lips quirked up in a cynical smile. That was nice and all, but as he’d noted earlier, Harry'd long since learned not to trust Dumbledore farther than he could throw him. The suggestion that Dumbledore was needed in order to ensure that the “impartial judge” wasn’t hoodwinked suggested that either the judge was wildly biased and required constant supervision, or the “impartial judge” was some sort of automatic magical system, sort of like the one which ensured that the Hogwarts letters were sent out without anyone being personally involved. 

Maybe the way Dumbledore intended to prevent the impartial judge from being tricked was simply by acting as a failsafe—if someone under seventeen was chosen, simply veto them and move onto the next candidate. But that didn’t fit with the phrasing Dumbledore had used, Harry mused unhappily, and his intuition was that Dumbledore’s way of “personally ensuring” that the judge wasn’t hoodwinked was more likely to involve wards than something so muggle as _common sense_. 

Yes, it was best to assume that Dumbledore’s attempts to keep underage students from competing would be ineffectual in the face of a determined assassin, and figure that Harry had a relatively high chance of ending up in the Tournament against his wishes. 

Harry’s mind flickered back to the bludger. He really should have solved this issue a lot earlier. To be fair, he’d been distracted by the whole shitshow with the Chamber of Secrets being opened, but in hindsight it seemed rather foolish not to address a clear assassination attempt. It was all fine and dandy to procrastinate on a Potion’s essay, but procrastinating on neutralizing whoever it was who’d tried to assassinate you was a height of stupidity that Harry was proud to say only _he_ could reach. 

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts. Self-recrimination was hardly productive— his time would be far better spent doing research. He’d need to learn how the impartial judging system worked, why the death toll was so high, what kind of tasks would be chosen… Harry’s brow furrowed. If he got chosen, could he just simply refuse to compete? Say “thanks, but no thanks” and pass the baton onto a gleeful Gryffindor? 

“The house elves didn’t just make that food just for you to stare at it,” came Blaise’s wry voice from his side. Harry blinked, and realized that a golden plate had appeared in front of him, and everyone around him was well into the Start-of-Term feast. 

Moving sluggishly, Harry served himself some food, hardly noticing what he put on his plate. He felt like there had to be something he was missing, some little key to how to deal with this new problem, but he was too tired for his mind to make the connection. Harry trailed his fork through the mashed potatoes, trying to figure out what the realization on the tip of his mental tongue was. 

Ah, Harry realized abruptly, dropping his fork into the middle of his mound of mashed potatoes. Mr. Maurice. He was in Britain on business for the French Ministry— secret business, but something he said Harry would find out about later. He was here for the Triwizard Tournament, wasn’t he? 

Harry frowned. Mr. Maurice could be a good source of information, but Harry wasn’t sure he’d exactly be delighted at the idea of helping a Brit cheat at the Triwizard Tournament, especially since Harry hadn’t even been forced into it as of yet. Then again, Harry reasoned, he already knew about Harry’s somewhat paranoid tendencies, and seemed to find them oddly charming. Of course, Harry really doubted a scruffy, quiet kid with a tendency to get into spats with authority figures would ever be charming enough to persuade someone to commit treason against their country. The very idea made Harry’s lips twitch upwards wryly, although that was mostly his exhaustion making everything seem funny.

Hmm. Would helping him cheat even count as treason? How big of a deal was this Triwizard Tournament thing, anyway? There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that this was a big political spectacle intended to foster good will in the Ministry of Magic after all of the bad PR they’d gotten due to their handling of the Chamber of Secrets… but was it a spectacle banking on just being a spectacle, or was it a spectacle banking on stoking rivalries between the different countries? 

“I knew the team was getting unhealthily attached to Quidditch, but I’d never realized it was this bad,” Sorsen Bishop said from behind Harry. He jerked his head at Tracey. “Scoot.” 

Tracey scooted, and Sorsen sat down next to Harry. “I thought your part of the deal was there being _no more bodyguards_ ,” Harry bit out, trying to look perky and awake. On his other side, Blaise was pointedly Not Watching the interaction, a sure sign that he was paying as much attention as was humanly possible.

“Oh, I’m no bodyguard,” Sorsen replied innocently. “I’m not even telling you that really ought to eat some dinner, even though it’s true that you _really_ ought to eat some dinner. I’m just here to ask if you’ve had any issues to report.” 

Harry hesitated for a split secondhand, then quickly opened his mouth to reply in the negative, but Sorsen’s eyes had sharpened, and Harry knew he’d already lost. Not the Dementor, Harry thought. That was far too painful and it was none of their business, anyway. 

“I don’t know if this counts,” Harry stalled. 

“Better safe than sorry, if you want us to uphold our side of things,” Sorsen replied smoothly. 

“It’s just,” Harry said hesitantly, “The Triwizard Tournament…” He bit his lip, not sure how to articulate this without sounding too terribly paranoid. “It seems like it would be easy to ‘volunteer’ someone into it and then get their death written off as an accident.” 

“Yes, I see your point,” Sorsen agreed. Harry blinked back at him in shock, but Sorsen didn’t seem to notice, his eyes too busy lingering on Dumbledore. “This talk about an impartial judge makes me think it’s some sort of merit-based magical system… which would only a require a skilled wardbreaker to outsmart.”

“If they just set it up so that Dumbledore or some of the others had vetoing power,” Harry spoke hesitantly, “That would prevent anyone underage from being entered.” 

Sorsen nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.” He flicked another pointed glance at Harry’s plate loaded up with untouched food, then rose from the table. Harry watched him leave, his brow furrowed. That had been one of the strangest experiences Harry had had in some time, and he and Lucius Malfoy had worked together to try to persuade the basilisk to fake its own death just a few months before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one sense, writing this chapter was easy because I could relate to Harry's tiredness. In another sense, it was difficult, because I could relate to Harry's tiredness.


	7. evasions & encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's first day back at school does _not_ go very well.

Harry shivered in his bed, curling into himself. He was dizzy and unmoored, lost in endless snow that stretched on infinitely both within and outside him. He wished more than anything for a warm touch, although the comfort of a human touch was so foreign to him that he hardly understood what it was that he longed for. Still, it was a physical need as strong and desperate as any hunger, an ache that felt a bit like a bruise across his whole body. 

Harry woke with his arms curled around in his own chest in a pathetic imitation of a hug, and tears frozen to his cheeks. He rose slowly, taking deep breaths to avoid vomiting. Casting a quick silencing charm, he headed to the showers and stood under scalding water until his nerves were singed to a numbness almost great enough to rid him of the soul-hollowing sensation of _lack_ that tormented him.

That morning Harry nursed a cup of steaming hot tea, picking listlessly at his eggs only when Sorsen gave him a pointed look. _Even bodyguards don’t bother their charges about how much they eat_ , Harry thought mutinously. _Parents_ did that. _Family_ did that. And Harry had neither, and would never have either, because those who tried either died or came to hate him. 

Harry forcefully shook his thoughts away. It was that damn Dementor, he told himself. Fucking with his thoughts and emotions. The reassurance probably would have worked better if not for the fact that what the Dementor said had been nothing less than Harry’s own most secret ponderings, the things he wondered about in the back of his mind on long nights when he struggled to sleep for nightmares. He couldn’t be sure that the Dementor was really lying— maybe all the Dementor needed to do to break poor, pathetic Harry Potter was to tell him the truths he’d been so desperately avoiding.

Harry was drawn out of his thoughts by the arrival of their third-year course schedules. He skimmed his silently, noting with some relief that his classes today shouldn’t be too difficult. He still felt groggy and befuddled from his encounter with the Dementor, and he feared the wrath of McGonagall, or worse yet _Snape_ , if he fell asleep in one of their classes. 

Divination was Harry’s first class of the day. Happily, both Neville and Ron would be taking the class along with him. This turned out to be an especially good thing, as it was only through Neville’s anxiety-driven prior research that they managed to find their way to the Divination classroom on time. 

Harry’s first thought upon climbing up into Professor Trelawney’s classroom was that there was no way he would be able to stay awake for the entire class. Red scarves had been hung over all of the lamps, lighting the room with a dull, crimson glow; the air was warm and filled with the dizzyingly strong smell of saccharine sweet perfume. Add to that the worn, comfortable looking armchairs and plump little pouffes, and Harry was sure he’d be out cold before the professor even introduced herself. 

“Welcome,” a voice whispered, and Professor Trelawney stepped out of the shadows. “How wonderful to see you all in the physical world at last…” Her glittering eyes skimmed the assembled students, before coming to a stop at Harry— Harry was disturbed to see that she actually _licked her lips_ at the sight of him. “The Boy-Who-Lived,” she breathed, reaching out one clawed hand towards Harry’s face. Harry flinched back, but she caught Harry’s chin and peered at his scar with an eerie fascination for a long moment, before abruptly releasing him. 

“Be careful, my boy,” she warned. “I see danger in your future… not without reward, however. It is an opportunity for glory, if you are able to endure.” 

Harry eyed her thoughtfully and more than a bit warily. “And do I get a choice about this… opportunity?” 

Professor Trelawney smiled, seemingly delighted that Harry was playing along. “No, my dear,” she breathed back. “No choice at all.” She patted his cheek almost condescendingly, as if to suggest only Divination professors like herself had any real chance against the whims of Fate. 

With a turn of her head as quick as a striking serpent, she latched onto Neville. “And you, my boy. Your parents… are they well?” 

Neville swallowed dryly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “...as well as they ever are,” He managed at last. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you, dearest,” Professor Trelawney murmured. Suddenly she grinned. “But my manners, my manners! Sit, sit my children— that is what the chairs are here for, after all!” 

They obediently sat, eyeing each other warily. After _that_ , Harry didn’t think he’d be sleeping a wink in this class, after all. He didn’t want Professor Trelawney anywhere near him without his eyes wide open and tracking her every move. 

Luckily, History of Magic was next, and Harry was able to get in a nice long nap in during Professor Binns’ start-of-term review of his favorite goblin revolutions. After lunch Harry had Care of Magical Creatures, which he unfortunately knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep through either. At least the weather was crisp and cool, helping him to stay alert and awake. 

Maybe a bit too crisp and cool. Harry found himself shivering, and wishing he’d brought his cloak. He’d assumed that what with it being only September, there’d be no need for it, but it seemed unseasonably chilly, and the wind had a way of cutting right through his robes. 

Hagrid greeted them outside the door of his hut. He was dressed in his usual moleskin overcoat, which Harry found himself frankly rather jealous of. Harry knew from the time Hagrid had let him use it as a blanket back on the Hut-on-the-Rock that despite its somewhat threadbare appearance, the coat was surprisingly warm and comfortable. 

“Everyone here? Right, follow me!” Hagrid called, breaking Harry out of his fantasies of warm coats and even warmer blankets. 

They approached a paddock at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, just where the scattered, lone trees started to gather into proper copses. At first glance, the paddock looked totally empty, but Hagrid let out a sharp, piercing whistle, and a—herd? —flock? of the most brilliantly beautiful, yet simultaneously bizarre, creatures Harry had ever seen approached.

“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared cheerfully, waving one large hand in their general direction. “Aren’t they beau’iful?” 

“If by beautiful you mean terrifying,” Ron muttered, right as Malfoy said loudly, “I think some of us have different definitions of beauty than you do, Groundskeeper.” Upon hearing the other, both boys promptly turned and glared furiously at each other. Harry tried not to laugh. 

Personally, Harry could see what Hagrid was talking about. Even if their talons and beaks didn’t exactly look friendly, there was a sort of a harsh, noble beauty to them, and their coats gleamed jewel-tone and glossy in the sunlight. 

“If yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer...” Hagrid hinted. Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron, then flicked a pointed glance at Ron’s Gryffindor tie. _You’re the Gryffindor._

Ron glared. “You’re the one who’s friends with Hagrid,” he whispered back. 

Looking crestfallen that none of the class had moved any closer, Hagrid started explaining how to greet a hippogriff. “C’mon,” Harry whispered to Ron. “A hippogriff! Isn’t that, like, Gryffindor’s mascot?” 

Ron glared even more fiercely. “No! That’s a lion, you prat!” 

“It hardly matters,” Malfoy said in a loud, carrying voice, “Seeing as you’re not much of a Gryffindor either way.” 

Ron scowled, and then, shoulders set, approached the fence. “I’ll do it, Hagrid. I’ll greet the hippogriffs.” 

Slowly, every inch of him shaking, Ron bowed to one of the hippogriffs while making constant, unblinking eye contact. When the hippogriff bowed back, all of the Gryffindors burst into applause, making Ron go bright red. Harry clapped as well. “See,” he told Ron as he clambered, grinning, back over the fence, “I knew you’d do great.” 

Emboldened by Ron’s success, the other students were climbing over the fence and beginning to approach the other hippogriffs themselves. Harry was moving to greet an inky black hippogriff when he saw Malfoy striding across the paddock towards Buckbeak, a swagger in his step that set alarm bells ringing in Harry’s head. 

Malfoy scoffed at Buckbeak dismissively. “You must not have very high standards then, if Weasley could pass them… if Weasley could get a bow back for a couple of pleasantries, I’ll bet you’ll bow to _me_ even if I don’t bow to you. Isn’t that right, you great ugly brute?” 

Harry could see Buckbeak bristling at Malfoy’s words, and he hurried over. Just as Buckbeak reared and slashed out with his talons, Harry shoved Malfoy out of the way. Harry felt the talons like a fiery sword slicing through him, catching the side of his neck and slashing on down over his collarbone. 

For a moment, there was ringing silence, and then Malfoy cried, “You’ve killed him! Your ugly beast killed Harry Potter!” Harry sunk to his knees, pressing his hands against the slashed cut. The blood seemed to be coming out of it at an incredible rate, and he already felt a bit light headed and woozy. 

“Hagrid, you’ve got to get him to the hospital wing,” someone snapped. “Maybe even St. Mungo’s,” Harry heard them mutter. 

Hagrid swung Harry up into his arms and started off at a jog. In Harry’s woozy state, the bouncing and jostling felt almost like the mild bumps and gentle movement that had lulled him to sleep on both the train and the carriage, and he found himself drifting off into blissful darkness for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the last forty-eight hours. 

Harry sat on a lake, frozen into a sheet of mirror-glossy ice by the all encompassing cold. Bending over the lake, Harry could see a familiar sight reflected back at him. Mum, her vivid red hair standing in contrast to her pale, freckled skin. Those laughing green eyes, so like his own. Dad, his skin a few shades darker than Harry’s, reaching down to rustle mirror-Harry’s mop of fluffy curls. 

Harry reached out for them, but the ice stopped him. He pressed his hand flat against the ice, although it was so cold it burned. Maybe if he pushed hard enough, the ice would shatter and he would find his way back to his parents. 

Instead, the ice melted away. Harry watched in resignation as his parents turned to nothing more than cold water, and the floe he was sitting on sunk beneath him. The cold water jolted him awake, and Harry blinked his eyes open, trying to sit up. 

“Mr. Potter,” came an unfamiliar voice. “Please stay laying down.” 

Harry hesitated, then settled back into the bed. His vision was blurry, and the right side of his neck and shoulder was numb with stiffness. He glanced around slowly. This place seemed strangely familiar, although he could see very little of it. A white bed, tile flooring beneath him, a wizard in green robes… “St. Mungo’s,” Harry blurted out.

“Correct,” the healer agreed. “You were admitted for a laceration to your right neck and shoulder, which also opened up your right jugular vein. However, in the healing process, I also discovered that you are suffering from some rather severe Dementor exposure. You should now be stable in terms of both ailments, though you will need time to rest and recuperate.” 

“Are you gonna tell them about it?” Harry blurted out. 

The healer’s eyes narrowed. “I believe it is now common knowledge that you have been mauled by a hippogriff, if that is what you are asking,” he responded. 

“No, I mean the Dementor,” Harry said. The healer’s eyebrows rose slightly. “It’s just,” Harry tried, “It’s kind of humiliating, how badly it effected me. I don’t want to get teased about it.” 

“You don’t even want to tell your family?” The healer asked. 

“They’re not my family,” Harry replied without thinking. The healer’s eyebrows rose even higher. Harry swallowed and tried to explain. “They’re not- I didn’t _choose_ them. I didn’t _want_ them to adopt me! I _chose_ the Weasleys, and they didn’t care— they completely disregarded that like it didn't matter at all! Why should I trust them if they don’t take into account what I want and need? If they don’t care who I wanted to adopt me, they probably won’t care that I don’t want everyone to know how badly the Dementor effected me. It’ll be around the school in a week, and I’ll get teased mercilessly.” 

The healer sighed. After a long moment, he agreed, “I won’t tell them. But take care of yourself. Make sure you’re getting enough to eat, dress warmly, and be sure that your diet includes plenty of chocolate.” 

Harry nodded quickly in agreement.

“Now go back to sleep.” 

It was easy to do just that. Harry rolled over and drifted off once more, this time into dreams of a lake full of cool water, which he fruitlessly searched the depths of for a family. 

Over the next few days, Harry spent most of his time sleeping. The healer brought Harry at least one cup of hot chocolate a day, which seemed to help with the ice shard in his chest. On the third day after Harry first woke up, he started being allowed visitors. 

Unfortunately, as his “family,” the Greengrasses were allowed to be the first to visit him. 

Lord Greengrass’ usually impeccably combed hair was parted ever off center, and his face looked a bit _too_ pale. Lady Greengrass’ robes were ever so slightly crinkled, as though she’d been clutching onto them. Daphne’s tie was loose, and Astoria was tugging anxiously on one of her locks of hair. 

There was no way any of that was due to him, though. Maybe the trip had been a bit stressful, or something. 

“Why did you leave?” Astoria burst out. “You didn’t even try the Quidditch pitch!” 

Harry was silent for a long moment. He wasn’t sure if he should bother responding.

“Please, Harry,” Lady Greengrass said. 

Harry jerked. He still wasn’t used to them calling him by his first name. _I don’t want a Quidditch pitch, I want a family_ , He thought. Instead, he said, “I told you, it isn’t safe for you if I live at Greengrass Manor.” 

“And we _told_ you that the Dark Lord will most certainly not be returning,” Lord Greengrass replied. “There is no need to fear.” 

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t respond no matter what the Greengrasses said, not until finally Lady Greengrass changed the subject and asked, “Professor Snape tells us you haven’t turned in your Hogsmeade form. Would you like us to sign that for you?” 

Harry shrugged apathetically. “If you want to.” 

“What would _you_ want?” Lady Greengrass asked. 

_Nothing you would, or could, give me_. “To be able to go back to sleep,” Harry replied. “I’m quite tired, I’m afraid.” 

Lady Greengrass’ lips thinned, but she nodded. “The form should be signed in time for the first Hogsmeade trip of the year.” And with that, the Greengrasses left, Astoria casting one last glossy-eyed glance over her shoulder as she exited. 

Ron, Neville and Parvati were the next ones to visit. Apparently, Luna and Tracey hadn’t been able to get permission to visit, which was too bad, but Luna had sent along a basket of goodies ranging from the normal, like the Chocolate Frogs she’d sent along, to the slightly odd, like dried valerian stalks to put under his pillow, to the downright eccentric, like the shrunken butternut squash that she said would help with Harry’s nargles. Harry’s friends also brought him notes from all of their classes so far. As Harry flipped through the stacks of notes, he recognized Hermione’s neat, tiny handwriting, and the slanted cursive that Padma used, but he didn’t dare ask if this meant they were no longer mad at him.

Undoubtedly, however, the most interesting of all the visits was Lucius Malfoy’s.

Mr. Malfoy's long, sleek blond hair was pulled into a neat tail, and his robes were even more crisply starched than usual. He returned Harry’s nod of greeting, then sat in the chair at Harry’s bedside. Harry sat up even straighter than usual, feeling like a lazy bum for still being in bed. He would have moved to a chair, but he knew the healer would chew him out for “endangering his recovery” later if he dared do so.

Mr. Malfoy eyed the place where Harry’s neck met his shoulder. A constant diet of potions had accelerated the healing process, leaving Harry with pink, tender scar tissue instead of a scabbed-over wound. “You risked your life in exchange for that of my son’s,” Mr. Malfoy murmured. “House Malfoy is in your debt. 

“It-” Harry was about to say, _it’s no big deal_ , but he abruptly realized that the way Mr. Malfoy had phrased it, saying that would imply he didn’t value Draco’s life. “It was a risk I undertook of my own free will,” Harry said instead. “There is no need to repay me for it.” 

“The fact that you did of your own free will is in fact why it leaves House Malfoy in such a debt,” Mr. Malfoy replied. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, how would you like your debt paid?” 

Harry was silent. He’d found that sometimes if he went quiet for long enough, Slytherins would give up their schemes. Even Slytherins had difficulty with brick walls. 

After several minutes of silence, Mr. Malfoy suggested, “The beast who did this to you could be prosecuted… as could the… _professor_ who allowed it to happen. I believe Mr. Scamander would be delighted to take up the position of Care of Magical Creatures professor at Hogwarts, especially with you as one of his students.” 

Sounds like something _you_ want, not me, Harry thought to himself. Then again, if Mr. Malfoy wanted it, he would probably try to do it even if Harry didn’t explicitly ask for it as his repayal of the debt. And if Harry asked for this as his debt repayal, he could determine how exactly it would play out, and get rid of the debt as well. Plus, it would be really nice having Newt Scamander as their professor, and he had to admit that with Hagrid in charge, this kind of thing _was_ likely to happen again.

“I don’t want Hagrid punished beyond his removal from the post,” Harry said at last. “And there’s no need for Buckbeak to be punished either. But Hagrid isn’t a very safe teacher, and Mr. Scamander would be an excellent Care of Magical Creatures professor.” 

Mr. Malfoy smiled. “Excellent. I will see to it that it is done,” he said, rising from his seat. Harry nodded, and Mr. Malfoy left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that having Harry be in Slytherin allows Ron more room to shine, since he gets to be the brave friend of the group, instead of just the comic relief like he often ended up being in canon (or at least in the movies). 
> 
> Y'all are probably getting frustrated by the fact that Harry is back on his bullshit, and still not asking for help. This is kind of spoiler-y, but I promise you, this story _will_ have a happy ending— even if it's not the one you're currently expecting. Actually, what ending _are_ you expecting? I'm genuinely curious, since when I wrote most of the first two installments, even _I_ didn't know where I was going.


	8. complexities of fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns to Hogwarts and his usual habits.

Despite the healer’s not-so-subtle suggestions that Harry stay and rest up a little while longer, Harry was able to return to Hogwarts just in time for the second week of term. Luckily, the first week had been mostly spent explaining the curriculum for the school year and reviewing the previous year’s content, so Harry would have little trouble catching up, especially with his friends’ notes to help him. 

With this newest near-death experience of Harry’s the upperclassmen were unsurprisingly (but still frustratingly) eager to jump right back into their meddlesome ways. Luckily, Harry was able to point out that he’d hardly had time to ask for help in the split second between the realization of his imminent mauling by hippogriff and said mauling, and so according to the terms of their agreement the upperclassmen had no right to reinstate the body guard detail. Aside from their new tendency to watch Harry carefully whenever he happened to be nearby, as if to catch him out on some secret danger he was hiding from them, the upperclassmen were forced to stay out of Harry’s business. 

Harry resumed classes and found that, as predicted, he had little trouble catching up. Some classes there didn’t even seem to be anything to truly catch up on; when Harry asked what they’d learned in History of Magic, his classmates had just shrugged, and in Divination, Professor Trelawney had spent the whole week telling the class in extreme detail how Harry’s aura attracted danger and that was why Harry had been mauled. 

Harry, who already knew he attracted danger, didn’t bother to ask for anymore detail on that front. Unless there was a way to fix it, which he didn’t think there was, and he doubted Professor Trelawney would want to help him with either way, Harry didn’t want to hear it. 

Harry’s other classes were better, though. In Astronomy they’d moved onto studying how constellations amplified and combined the energies of the stars that made them up, which Harry was finding absolutely _fascinating_ , and Professor McGonagall had shown them her animagus form, which was the coolest thing Harry had seen since the basilisk. 

Best of all, however, were Defense and Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Moody was shaping up to be a surprisingly competent Defense teacher, even if he did have an opportunity to shout “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” just when everyone was starting to get relaxed. Between Quirrell’s stuttering incompetence, Lockhart’s tendency to talk about himself and not the curriculum, and the complete lack of consistency in what material the substitute teachers taught, a lot of basics had never been really explained to the students. Luckily, Moody seemed to realize just that, and he appeared to be happy to focus on laying the foundations instead of expecting them to move onto more advanced work. 

Harry had already learned the importance of wand holsters (one was _not_ to store their wand in their back pocket, as reinforced by Mad Eye’s story of an Auror trainee who blew off his left buttocks), what the Unforgivable Curses were, and how to raise basic shields against physical and magical attacks. There was something deeply satisfying about filling in the holes in Harry’s knowledge, as it had always irked him when their other professors just _assumed_ he’d already know these things from DADA. 

Care of Magical Creatures was also much improved by the arrival of a competent professor with a clear, effective curriculum. As the pioneer of modern Magizoology, Newt Scamander had a way of explaining all of the minute distinctions between the different categories in a way that was strikingly intuitive. Of course, the man’s natural charm, easy-going attitude, and strong appreciation for common-sense safety precautions didn’t hurt either.

The only damper on Care of Magical Creatures was the commute to and from. Harry had to pass far too close to the Dementors' patrol paths for comfort. Harry made sure to always stick with his other classmates, which seemed to help in that at least none of the Dementors approached, but he could still feel their cold sinking into his bones and leaching all of the pleasure out of him. Harry made sure to always carry chocolate with him so he could quickly eat a bar or two on his way to his next period, but he still found that he would struggle to stay focused and present during whatever class came after on that particular day. 

It was getting harder to sleep properly, as well. His dreams seemed to always revolve around how cold he was, no matter how many blankets and heating charms Harry piled on. Harry often had trouble getting to sleep, as well— when he lay down to sleep at night and tried to relax, his skin would start aching with that familiar _lack_. 

_You’re all alone!_ his mind would screech. _You have no family, no one to tuck you in or hold you!_ His skin would almost _itch_ with a desire to be touched, so badly that sometimes he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours. 

Yes, Harry still had Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk, and her weight and solidity helped, but, as terrible as admitting it made him feel, it just wasn’t _enough_. She wasn’t warm and soft-skinned and _human_ , and anyway she was often out hunting at night instead of curled up in bed with Harry. 

It didn’t help that as his issues with sleep got worse and worse, Harry started thinking about sleep more and more. He would lay up at night, thinking, _I need to go to sleep_ , which of course immediately made sleep in possible. It was a terrible, humorless irony. 

Harry tried to fight his loneliness by making sure to spend plenty of quality time with his friends. Still, no matter how much they laughed and chattered happily, most of Harry’s friends weren’t that touchy-feely. Hermione had been, but she only smiled hesitantly at him in the halls now, and didn’t seem inclined to rejoin their group anytime soon. Harry knew he should just ask his friends for what he so desperately wanted, but whenever he tried to do so, his mouth would dry up so much that his tongue stuck to his mouth, and he would get lost in spiraling memories of burning Quirrel’s flesh with his fingers and what the Dementor had said about Harry killing the ones he loved. 

Now that Harry thought about it, he was getting touched a lot less. Hermione had been his one big source of hugs and friendly touch, and she had stopped doing that. The only other steady source of touch that Harry could think of was the Slytherin Quidditch Team. They’d often taught him how to do particular maneuvers by physically moving him into the correct position. Plus, a lot of them were pretty tactile in general— Harry recalled how Marcus had laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder first at Diagon Alley, and then at King’s Cross Station. Harry knew it had just been to prevent him from running off, but he couldn’t help a pathetic sense of longing fill him at the memories. 

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep at all. Ssslshchhshkh’lsh’hhk was off with the basilisk, and he’d had a stressful Divination class that day that he just couldn’t stop thinking about. Between the two issues, Harry spent the night tossing and turning instead of sleeping. When he went down to the common room, Gemma Farley stopped by to ask him if he had any dangers to report, even though the upperclassmen usually went through the daily ritual of asking him that each night right before bed, not in the morning. 

Maybe it was just surprise at the time difference, but Harry found himself hesitating slightly. Gemma raised her eyebrows in a pointed order to explain his issue, and Harry, his mind whirling as he tried to think of a credible lie, found himself blurting out, “I miss Quidditch.” 

Seeing Gemma’s somewhat bemused face, Harry blushed furiously and hurried away. It was true, he _did_ miss Quidditch— just not for the reasons Gemma was probably assuming. Damn, that had been as bad as the time Harry had to tell Snape about his panic attacks. Well, maybe not exactly _as_ bad— just recalling the awkwardness of that talk with Snape was making Harry grit his teeth. 

At least Harry had DADA next. Professor Moody could be a bit of a taskmaster sometimes, but his classes were always enjoyable. 

“You can put your books away; there will be no need for them, as today will be a practical lesson during which,” Professor Moody informed them, “I will teach you how to face a Boggart.” 

Harry’s heart sank like a stone. He had no idea what form a Boggart would take for him, but he knew that considering how fucked up he was, it would undoubtedly be something awful. Would it be Quirrell, with Voldemort’s face on the back of his head shouting out orders to kill Harry? Or maybe that awful, insidious diary that had almost led to the school being shut down? Or even… Harry shuddered against his will. Maybe even Uncle Vernon how he’d been the day he broken Harry’s wand, his face purple with rage and his voice dangerously soft as he’d threatened Harry. 

“...Boggarts take the form of a wizard’s worst fears, and it is with this in mind that I am making this particular practical optional.” 

Harry’s head jerked up and he stared at Professor Moody, incredulous. 

Professor Moody seemed to be looking right at Harry as he said, “Each student will enter the room containing the Boggart alone except for me, who must escort you for safety purposes. During this time, you will practice the spell against Boggarts until you have mastered it. This can either be done alone, or against the Boggart, as you so desire. Afterwards, the next student will enter. I promise that whatever form your Boggart takes will be kept entirely confidential, unless it reveals an unknown threat posed against you, in which case I will be forced to notify the appropriate authorities.” 

_Holy shit._ Did Moody really mean it? For a moment, Harry simply continued staring speechlessly at Moody. Then Moody said, “the Boggart is in the staffroom closet,” and so Harry rose with the rest of the class and, dazed, followed Professor Moody through the halls to the staffroom. 

Professor Moody explained the theoretical aspect of facing a Boggart, as well as demonstrated the Riddikulus spell several times. Then, he announced that he would be giving them five more minutes to prepare on their own, before beginning the Boggart-facings. 

He, along with his classmates, settled into a neat queue. Some of them had looks of rigid determination on their faces, while others seemed to be debating whether or not to have the Boggart out. For his part, Harry knew that if it really was an option, he would do his assignment without the Boggart. He suspected, however, that Professor Moody would expect Harry to face the Boggart, even if he didn’t require all of his classmates to. After all, Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived, and it was expected that he should be able to face his fears. 

All too soon, they had reached Harry’s turn. Hands shaking slightly, Harry opened the door and entered the staffroom. The staffroom was a long, paneled room with the closet at the very end; Harry could see it shaking rather threateningly. 

“Would you like to do this with or without the Boggart?” came Mad Eye’s gravelly voice. 

“W-without,” Harry stuttered out. Professor Moody just nodded easily, giving a wave of one scarred hand as if to say, “get on with it.” Obediently, Harry moved through the motions of the spell. He’d been obsessively practicing it all through the line, so he managed to do it perfect on his first try. 

Professor Moody’s eyebrows rose. “Good job. I would let you go, but it will be pretty obvious that you didn’t face the Boggart if you leave so quickly.” Harry nodded hesitantly. It was true that everyone else had stayed in much longer than Harry had. “Why don’t we give it five minutes?” Moody suggested, setting his battered watch. 

Harry half expected Moody to take this opportunity to do… _something_ , Harry wasn’t sure what, but Moody just pulled out a slim moleskin journal from one sleeve and started noting something down. Harry gingerly sat down on one of the nearby mismatched chairs. After a few long seconds of silence, Moody said without looking up, “feel free to pour yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

Harry turned his head, and sure enough, there was a huge pitcher of piping hot chocolate on the coffee table next to him. Harry poured himself a generous mugful and took several deep sips, feeling the warmth trickle down through his core. Harry could feel his muscles relaxing, and he stifled a yawn. 

By the time Harry had finished his mug of hot chocolate, he eyes were heavy and mostly closed, and he kept on having to startle himself back awake. Suddenly, Moody’s watch let out a loud ringing noise that pulled Harry forcefully back to full wakefulness. Flushing, Harry hurried to his feet and brushed off his robes. 

Moody scrawled something out on a piece of paper in his journal, then ripped it out. “Clearly you know this material,” he told Harry gruffly. “Go take a nap.” Harry gingerly accepted the paper; a glance down revealed it was a slip excusing him from the rest of this class period. Nodding his thanks, Harry headed out. 

That had certainly been something, Harry found himself thinking as he headed back to the dungeons for the nap Moody had suggested. Between the upperclassmen with their continual asking if he was in danger, and Moody with his pass just so Harry could take a nap, Harry was feeling more spoiled than Dudley himself. 

The truth was, Harry thought as he collapsed into his nice, warm bed, he actually kind of liked it. Or at least this part, the part where he got to take a nap in the middle of the school day. Not the rest of it. 

In his drowsy state, Harry couldn’t prevent his mind from refuting him and revealing the truth. _You do like it,_ he thought mournfully to himself. _You like all of the coddling you get, even the upperclassmen bugging you about if you’re in danger. The issue is that you like it and want it so much that not having more of it hurts, and if you admit that you want it, the lack of it will hurt all the more._

“Well _that’s_ certainly a revelation,” Harry slurred, and then promptly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry: *holds up hand to someone giving basic provisions towards his well being* is this being spoiled?
> 
> I know this chapter’s short, I just felt like this was a good stopping point. I’ll probably do an extra chapter later this week to make up for it.
> 
> Other points of interest:   
> 1) I have decided to nix the subplot about Neville's home life because I have _too many plots_ going on, yikes.   
> 2) I may end up having a fourth installment after this after all, because I'm not sure if I can do Harry's recovery justice while also not making this fic ungodly long. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts!


	9. chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how much Harry might wish otherwise, time continues to pass, and as such, the time for the drawing of the Triwizard Champions approaches.

Already overwhelmed by his other issues, Harry stonewalled his revelation in a manner that Blaise would recognize all too well. Harry continued having nightmares of being cold and lonely, sometimes interspersed with more pleasant dreams where he was with his parents, although they were always separated from him in some way or another. Harry couldn’t control his sleep or lack thereof, but Harry refused to allow the issue to spill over into his days as well— he simply had too many things to deal with already. 

The Slytherin upperclassmen had reluctantly informed him that according to Dumbledore, the nature of the selection process meant that it was impossible to veto those who entered into the Tournament— something which Harry thought both dangerous, and exceedingly stupid. His only comfort was that the upperclassmen seemed to agree with him, and Harry spent a rather enjoyable evening exchanging anecdotes about Dumbledore’s irrational policies. 

And then there was the matter of the Dementors. He was eating more chocolate than ever, and he made sure to always layer on lots of thick clothing under his robes. Still, having to be constantly alert was taking a mental toll on him, and no matter how much chocolate Harry ate, it didn’t ever quite touch the shard of ice that remained at his core. 

In addition to Harry’s continuing struggles with the Dementors, Professor Trelawney was saying odd and somewhat ominous things about Harry during class. Harry had subtly asked around and apparently, Trelawney had a tendency to latch onto people and predict misfortune upon them, which suggested the predictions were likely as groundless as her earlier prognosis that Penelope Clearwater would lose all of her hair and her forecast that Krum would break his neck at the World Cup. Still, something about Trelawney which Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on set his teeth on edge. 

Harry was also unhappy to realize that the matter of Malfoy’s life debt was not as resolved as he had thought. Draco seemed suspiciously interested in Harry’s preferences on a variety of things, from whether he would like to go see the next Quidditch World Cup, to if he had any favored legislation that he was worried wouldn’t pass. When Harry rather wearily asked Tracey about it, she told him that since Draco was the Malfoy heir, Harry saving his life was a pretty big deal and that Harry’d been a bit silly to think the whole affair was over just because Lucius Malfoy had replaced a teacher on his behalf. 

Then there was the matter of the Slytherin upperclassmen. On top of Harry’s usual efforts to get them to butt out of his business, Harry was disturbed to spot several Slytherin upperclassmen whispering with Fred and George not once, not twice, but _three_ times. Harry tried to tell himself it would be arrogant to assume they were talking about _him_ , but really, the only times the Slytherins and the Weasley twins had willing associated with each other had been when Harry had factored into the equation in some way, so his attempts at self-persuasion weren’t going very well. 

When Harry asked Ron about it, he seemed just as confused as Harry. He ended up shrugging and suggesting that maybe Fred and George were trying to persuade the Slytherin upperclassmen to invest in their budding prank shop idea. This led Harry to suggest to Fred and George that he would be perfectly happy to fund them himself, to which George had patted his head, while Fred informed him that he was pretty sure Harry’s parents would have set things up so Harry couldn’t spend his trust fund so recklessly. 

About a week before Halloween, a notice appeared at the foot of the marble staircase, notifying them that the delegations from Beauxbatons and Drumstrang would be arriving on the afternoon of the thirtieth. Although no one had really _forgotten_ about the Triwizard Tournament, in the hustle and bustle of school, it had fallen from the forefront of their minds. 

As such, the school found itself abruptly in a whirl of activity, hurrying to complete last-minute preparations for their guests. The suits of armor were polished to gleaming, the neglected upper corners of Hogwarts were de-cobwebbed, and soon even the Owlery was positively spic-and-span. Similarly, the professors seemed determined to pack enough extra knowledge into their poor abused brains that even the allegedly rather snooty French would have nothing to fault them for. They weren’t having too much luck, for, by and large, the students’ minds were on gossip rather than lessons. 

Rumors were spreading around the school like a particularly bad bout of the flu: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament would involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves. Some of the rumors seemed more outlandish than others; the possibility that Cassius Warrington would try for Hogwarts champion, for example, was far more likely than the idea that the Beauxbatons uniform included a striped shirt and a red beret. 

Especially seeing as Harry idly asked Mr. Scamander, who had attended Beauxbatons, about it, and he laughingly replied that the Beauxbatons uniform was made up of sky blue robes, actually. 

More pertinently, Harry asked Mr. Scamander if he recalled working with a French wizard by the name of Rigel Maurice back in India. Harry was surprised when Mr. Scamander replied that yes, he _had_ worked with a young French wizard by the name of Rigel Maurice, who he had found to be a pleasant and trustworthy individual. 

With this in mind, Harry sent an owl Mr. Maurice’s way. He wasn’t sure how to broach the topic of the Triwizard Tournament, so he decided to skirt it entirely, and simply talked about his experience with Hhtchkk’sssh’khchhk’sl’llsss’ssii’kkhhh, and made a few suggestions that might be helpful in Mr. Maurice’s future dealings with the young basilisk in India. At the end of the letter, he suggested that perhaps he and Mr. Maurice could meet up during the next Hogsmeade weekend, which would be the first weekend after Halloween, so that Harry could teach Mr. Maurice some more Parseltongue. 

Harry also tried to research the Tournament itself. Unfortunately, most of the pertinent books had already been checked out by ambitious upperclassmen determined to become Hogwarts champion, and what research Harry did manage to do mostly served to make Harry more anxious, instead of actually imparting any helpful knowledge. 

Only a day or two after Harry sent out his owl, he received a reply from Mr. Maurice, mostly discussing the nature of basilisks, but also inquiring, to Harry’s surprise, about his health and wellbeing, and also affirming that yes, he would love to meet Harry at Hogsmeade on the weekend after Halloween. This reply was enough to leave Harry cautiously hopeful that he may be able to persuade Mr. Maurice to help him out, which helped him immensely in terms of coping with the stress of the fast-approaching Tournament. 

On the morning of the thirtieth, the students arrived at breakfast to find that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, representing the Hogwarts Houses, and the House tables themselves were clad in the fancy tablecloths usually used only on feast days. Streamers in the House colors hung from the ceiling, and even their usual cutlery had been replaced with an especially fine set of china, with the Hogwarts seal in gold filigree at the center of each plate. 

That evening found the students assembled in front of the castle, shivering with excitement, or in Harry’s case, shivering with genuine cold. He wished the visitors would get a move on and show up already; the Dementors had left him far more sensitive to the cold, and his teeth had begun to chatter most unpleasantly. At least, they had been chattering, until Sorsen Bishop stepped forward and folded Harry under his cloak, much like a mother bird folding a chick under her wing. It was silly, but Harry felt a lump rise in his throat, and he was extremely aware of Sorsen’s warm arm where it rested on his shoulder. 

The odd sensation of human touch was so distracting that Harry hardly noticed the Beauxbaton students arriving in their pale blue carriage, or the Drumstrang students’ ship rising out of the Great Lake. Despite the cold, Harry was rather disappointed to go in, for when they went in, Sorsen at long last removed his arm from Harry’s shoulder.

As they settled into dinner, Harry noticed several of the students from Drumstrang, who’d settled down at the Slytherin table, eyeing him with some interest. Harry tried to look as uninteresting as possible and devoted his full attention to sampling the various new, foreign dishes that the house elves had prepared. Unfortunately, the Drumstrang students seemed rather blunter than the Slytherins were. 

“I hear that you were the one who found the Chamber of Secrets?” one witch who was sitting a little way down from him asked.

“Technically,” Harry murmured, hoping that would be enough to dissuade her. When she made an eager noise of encouragement, Harry reluctantly elaborated, “The credit for negotiating with the basilisk should really go to Mr. Scamander though, and of course the whole thing would have fallen apart if not for the political support the upperclassmen and their families gave the issue.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Marcus Flint interrupted. “He was the one to find the Chamber, he was the one who freed the basilisk from what was possessing it, and he served as translator all throughout negotiations.” 

“Missed about half of the spring term doing it,” Malfoy added. “I’m honestly impressed he managed to pass his classes at all.” 

By this point, Harry was redder than a tomato, so it was a good thing that Dumbledore took this moment to begin his introductory speech. 

“The moment has come,” Dumbledore announced. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket, just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”

That seemed like a pretty biased panel, Harry thought but didn’t say. Three out of five judges were British, and _all_ of the judges had a vested interest in one Champion or another winning. Harry sighed. Then again, this whole thing was going to be a shitshow anyway, so why bother trying to make it fair or balanced?

“The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.” Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. 

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, “and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways... their magical prowess— their daring— their powers of deduction— and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.” 

Harry started slowly and methodically ripping a slice of bread into tiny, ragged shreds. _Cope with danger,_ his ass, Harry thought somewhat nonsensically. 

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore continued on calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Sorsen. A merit-based automatic magical system, just as they’d guessed. 

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.” 

Harry began shredding his slice of bread more aggressively. What if someone stole, for instance, the heading of his homework and put it in? What was to prevent someone from putting Harry into the tournament under a fourth school, ensuring that Harry, by virtue of being the only student from that school, had to be chosen? 

“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line. Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end.” 

_Fuck_ , Harry thought. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He selected another slice of bread and started rapidly ripping that one to pieces, as well. What was to prevent some older person from putting his name in? Did these high and mighty authorities have no common sense whatsoever? 

“The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet.” Dumbledore cast a stern gaze around the Great Hall, then bid them a good night. 

Harry tossed the shredded scraps of bread onto his half-eaten plate and rose from the table, heading back to the dungeons for another restless night of attempted sleep. 

The next morning Harry picked at his food, trying to ignore the students around him eagerly chattering about the Triwizard Tournament. He ended up heading off to the Ravenclaw table to eat with Luna, who at least didn’t seem to care one way or another. Unfortunately, sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Luna meant that he was closer to the Beauxbatons students, who seemed just as interested in him as the Drumstrang students had been, but they were at least more subtle in their staring. 

They also had a prime view of Fred and George’s rather amusing failure to use Aging Potion to get their names into the Goblet of Fire. It also cheered Harry greatly, as it made him raise his estimation of the security surrounding the Goblet of Fire. Perhaps they’d thought of all of the same loopholes that Harry had, and gone ahead and filled them, just as they had the Aging Potion loophole. 

Feeling better, Harry managed to get down some eggs and spent the rest of the meal watching from afar as Hermione carried on a rather excited conversation in French with one of the new arrivals from Beauxbatons. 

After breakfast, Harry spent the rest of his day off playing Exploding Snap at the Ravenclaw table with Luna, Neville, Ron, and Tracey. (Parvati was busy gossiping with some of her friends about who they thought the Champions were going to be.) Between Neville’s lost eyebrow, the singed tips of Luna’s blonde hair, and several new burn marks on the Ravenclaw table, Harry hardly had time to worry about the Triwizard Tournament at all. 

When dinnertime arrived, Harry reluctantly returned to his spot at the Slytherin house table along with Tracey. Harry tried to enjoy the Halloween feast, but in the absence of any distractions, he was beginning to feel rather anxious again, and the rich food combined with his nerves led to a complete lack of appetite. 

Finally, the meal ended, and Dumbledore stood. 

“When the champions’ names are called, I would ask them to please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” —he indicated the door behind the staff table— “where they will be receiving their first instructions.” 

After a long and anxiety-inducing wait, the flames inside the goblet turned red again, and sparks began to fly from it. The next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, and a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it. Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment with one wrinkled hand. “The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.” Applause, not just from Drumstrang but from Hogwarts and Beauxbatons as well, filled the room as Krum unfolded himself from his seat at the Slytherin table and headed through the door to the receiving room beyond.

Seconds later, the Goblet turned red once more. The second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames. “The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!” Fleur Delacour seemed to be a far less popular champion; her classmates, instead of cheering, mostly seemed disappointed, and no one was clapping for her except for Madame Maxine and the other judges. Harry started clapping politely, and soon the rest of Hogwarts joined. Delacour cast him a confused look and then disappeared into the receiving room as well.

The Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip, Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment. “The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cassius Warrington!”

For a split second, there was utter silence, and then the Slytherins burst into loud, enthusiastic cheers. Harry was surprised to see, as he cast his gaze towards the other tables, that it was not only the Slytherins that were clapping. The Slytherins were the most enthusiastic by a wide margin, but even most of the Gryffindors were applauding politely. Fred whooped loudly, and George called out, “Eat ‘em alive, Warrington!” 

“Well, we now have our three champions,” Dumbledore announced with a smile. “I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —” Dumbledore cut off abruptly. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. A chill ran up Harry’s spine, and he gripped the table so hard that his knuckles turned white. 

Harry watched in helpless inaction as sparks flew out of the cup, and now the familiar long flame shot suddenly into the air, bearing upon it another piece of parchment. Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore, and Harry stared at his trembling hands where they were locked onto the edge of the table. And then Dumbledore announced, words falling into the air like a series of very heavy stones into a pool of still water, “ _Harry Potter._ ” 

The whole room was staring at Harry now, and Harry was still staring at his trembling bloodless hands. After a long moment, Harry swallowed through his dry mouth, forced himself to let go of the table, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

Harry licked his chapped lips, and choked out, “I didn’t put my name in.” He barely managed to say the words, but the Great Hall was so silent that no one could fail to hear. Then Harry faltered his way through to the receiving Chamber. Viktor Krum, Cassius Warrington, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fireplace, looking very tall and impressive, Krum looking brooding and powerful, and Warrington with his hands held behind his back in a very adult-looking gesture. Fleur turned her head with a flash of silver hair and asked, “Do they want us back in the Hall?” 

Harry shook his head, opened his mouth to attempt to somehow explain, found he didn’t have any air to explain with, and then plopped down onto the floor, put his head between his knees, and focused on breathing. 

One of the Ministry people was entering the room now and saying something about Harry being the fourth Champion. Harry scrunched his eyes shut so hard that it hurt, and forced himself to take a deep, rattling breath. 

“You must be joking,” Came Warrington’s deep voice. The Slytherins were sure to hate him now, Harry thought dizzily, for taking away attention from the Slytherin Triwizard Champion when the Slytherins had been discounted and villainized for generations… Harry’s heart twisted at the thought, and he unwillingly remembered the warmth of Sorsen’s arm on his shoulder. 

“Clearly there is a mistake,” Delacour was saying sharply. “He is what— eleven? Twelve? He’s a little boy, not a Triwizard Champion!” 

Now the other judges were coming in, and things were getting quite loud as they all started arguing. Harry curled into himself, wishing this were already over. As the shouting got louder and louder, Harry had more and more difficulty breathing, and he found that it started to remind him more and more of how Uncle Vernon had shouted. His fingers were beginning to tingle most unpleasantly. 

Distantly Harry heard an oddly familiar step-clumping coming towards him, and then a wrinkled figure settled in front of him. 

“Don’t worry,” a gravelly voice reassured him. “You’re perfectly safe here; I won’t let anyone hurt you. Just focus on calming down for now.” Then the dark-cloaked figure stood up again so that he was shielding Harry from view, and so that the noise of the adults arguing was a bit muffled. The only thing Harry could really hear properly was what Moody had to say, and that was mostly things like, “Why would Potter want the prize money, or for that matter the glory? He’s already rich, and he could easily rest on his laurels for the rest of his life, just from what he accomplished as a toddler,” and “If anyone has the right to complain here, Karkaroff, it’s Mr. Potter.” 

After some time, Harry managed to get himself under control. Moody didn’t offer him a hand but just stood back so Harry had enough room to scramble to his feet. The adults had all finally quieted down, and now seemed to be waiting for Harry to join them. 

“It appears,” Dumbledore informed him regretfully, “That due to the binding nature of the contract, you will be forced to compete.”

Harry nodded stoically. For some reason the adults expected him to protest, or at least make some sort of comment, so Harry just managed a wry, bitter smile and said, “I don’t know why you expect me to be surprised. This sort of thing keeps happening to me.” He shrugged fatalistically. 

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” Mr. Crouch explained. “So we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard, after all. The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.” 

The Champions, both legitimate and illegitimate, all nodded, and Harry asked, “May we go?” 

Looked a bit discomfited, Mr. Crouch nodded, and Harry limped off towards the dungeons. As he did so, Cassius Warrington fell into step with him, saying, “We’ll be expected at a meeting of the House tonight.” Harry nodded. Although he’d much rather go straight to bed, he’d just have to endure a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't end up posting an extra chapter this week, but this chapter is about ~800 words longer to help make up for it. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts! I may not reply to all of them, but I definitely read all of them, and seeing all of your theories and ideas has always brought me joy :)


	10. commentary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry sees the reactions to his new status as fourth Triwizard Champion.

Harry had heard a saying that once was chance, twice was a coincidence, and three times was a pattern. If that was true, then Slytherin having house meetings that either directly or indirectly involved Harry was a pattern. Then again, Harry had also heard that third time was the charm, so maybe he’d be able to break the pattern before it got properly started. 

Also, Harry mused, would that initial meeting about the opening of the Chamber actually count? It had affected him, but not much more than it had affected anyone else, he thought, and it hadn’t been so directly about him like this meeting, and the previous meeting, were. If he didn’t count that first meeting, Harry still had a bit of slack before this unwanted pattern was set in stone. 

Warrington came to a stop in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, thus jolting out Harry out of his tired daydreams. 

“Fraternity,” Warrington spoke, and the walls parted before him. 

As expected, the room was full. All of the chairs were occupied by upperclassmen and high-status individuals, and the walls of the common room were shielded from view by a semi-circle of other students. Harry eyed them a bit enviously; his earlier panic attack had left his limbs shaky, and while he understood that having usurped their legitimate Champion he wouldn’t be allowed a chair to sit in, he wished he could at least lean against the wall. 

“Harry Potter,” Gemma Farley spoke in a clear and carrying voice. “In the Great Hall, you said that you did not put your name in the Goblet of Fire. Do you stand by that statement?” 

Harry nodded wordlessly, then when there was an encouraging pause from Gemma Farley, found himself divulging a bit more than he would if he had really slept the previous few nights instead of just worrying. 

“I think it’s easy to tell from my behavior how I feel about drawing attention. With regards to the basilisk, even though I know you think I handled that recklessly, I was trying to achieve my goals in the safest way I could with the resources that I knew I had. I wouldn’t have risked my life then if I knew it was possible to keep both the students and basilisk from being killed without taking that chance, and similarly, I would never risk my life just for a little bit of gold, or for attention that I try to avoid anyways.” 

His piece said, Harry found himself feeling as spent and empty as a balloon with all the air let out of it. He swayed slightly on his feet, then quickly braced himself against a nearby bookcase. Evidently, he wasn’t quick enough, however, because he saw Sorsen’s eyes narrow. 

Sorsen rose from his seat and indicated with a jerk of his head that Harry should take his place. Too relieved to draw up the usual irritation at the meddling, Harry staggered over and collapsed gratefully into the couch. He was unable to stop himself from letting out a small sigh at the feeling of being able to get off his feet and have his tired body supported by something other than his trembling legs. 

When he opened his eyes, he was disturbed to realize that Adrian Pucey was sitting next to him on the arm of the couch, and giving him one of Those Looks that he so often got from the older Slytherins. Harry resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him and returned his attention to what was going on around him. 

Sorsen was busy explaining how Harry had reported unease at the opportunity for funny business the Tournament had reported from the very beginning, and then later expressed displeasure at the insubstantial security requirements in place against fraud. He also mentioned how Harry had suggested setting up a veto system as a safeguard against underage students and then been shot down by the organizers. 

Speech finished, Sorsen moved to stand behind the couch Harry was sitting in, arms folded on its back in a manner that looked, Harry noted with bewilderment, almost proprietary. Perhaps he wanted his seat back? Well too bad, Harry was sitting in it now, and at this point, he wasn’t sure if he _could_ get out of it even if he wanted to. 

“Revelations about Potter the previous year have made it clear that he is far more Slytherin than we initially gave him credit for,” Signe Ashcroft said in a clear allusion to Harry’s status as a Parselmouth. “With this in mind… isn’t it possible that all of his reported worries about being forced into the Tournament came from the knowledge of his own plan to end up in the Tournament, and that his proposed countermeasure was designed to be rejected?” 

Harry was unable to prevent himself from snorting. “Flattered though I am, you give me too much credit, Miss Ashcroft.” His head lolled idly back against the chair, and his eyes momentarily fluttered shut, though he quickly forced them open again. “Tell me, what would I have to do to prove my truthfulness?” 

“Throw the Tournament,” came a familiar baritone. The room seemed to hold its breath as they all collectively turned to look at Cassius Warrington, who was wearing an expression of careful indifference as if he didn’t care how Harry responded at all. 

Harry shrugged. “Sure.” 

Several jaws dropped open, and Adrian began to laugh slightly hysterically. “That’s one way to prove your intentions,” he murmured as he wiped away tears of mirth. Warrington, meanwhile, was eyeing Harry as though he were trying to figure out how Harry would attempt to both give the appearance of throwing the Tournament and simultaneously “accidentally” end up winning. 

“How about this,” Harry added, “If I do win, I won’t keep the prize money. I’ll use it to buy a nice fat cow for Hhtchkk’sssh’khchhk’sl’llsss’ssii’kkhhh, or give it to charity. Or to you, Warrington, if you’d accept it.” 

Warrington rubbed his temple. “Alright, Potter, I believe you,” he replied in a carrying voice. 

A tired smile tugged at Harry’s lips. “Good,” he murmured, “I don’t want the Hogwarts Champion thinking badly of me.” 

After another few minutes of vaguely stunned quiet, Gemma Farley drew the meeting to a close. Most of the students dispersed, but the usual group of meddlesome upperclassmen pulled their furniture into a tight huddle and began talking about things Harry needed to do to make it less likely he died during the Tournament. Harry nodded along, but he was too exhausted to take much of what they were telling him in. He mostly noticed that Sorsen was still standing. 

“You can sit,” Harry blurted out. He promptly regretted this offer, as it would mean he would have to get up, but he should probably be going to bed anyway. “You too, Adrian,” Harry forged ahead. “It can’t be comfortable sitting on the arm of the couch like that.” 

Both Adrian and Sorsen moved to take Harry up on his offer, but to his chagrin, when he moved to get up, Niore Oleander aggressively waved him back down and pointedly nodded towards Penrose, who was suggesting that Harry open up a hefty insurance policy before the news of him being the fourth Champion got out to the general public. 

“Money can’t get you out of the Tournament, but it can help pay for any expensive medical treatments _incured_ during the Tournament,” Penrose was saying wryly. 

Harry reluctantly settled back into his seat. The couch wasn’t so cramped Harry was folded up in two or anything, but Harry was still squished up against two people, which for someone as undersocialized as him, was a Pretty Big Deal. 

At first, Harry couldn’t pay attention to what the upperclassmen were saying, but in a surprisingly short amount of time, Harry acclimated to the solid heat of their bodies near his, and promptly went back to not being able to pay attention to what the upperclassmen were saying because he was too tired. His head dipped as his eyelids drooped once more, and he was surprised to find a warm shoulder nearby to rest against. Too exhausted to control himself, Harry was unable to resist leaning closer to the tantalizing source of warmth and comfort. 

Through the fog of nearing sleep, he could dimly hear voices in conversation, although none of it registered to him as anything beyond soothing background noise. 

“...missing important instructions.” Niore Oleander was saying. 

“Didn’t you see him swaying where he stood earlier? Kid’s exhausted.” That was Marcus Flint. “He won’t take in anything anyway.” 

“He’s probably been worrying over the Tournament too much to get any proper sleep,” Adrian agreed. Speaking caused his chest to rumble, and Harry’s head slipped off of its warm pillow. Gentle hands deftly caught it. 

“He’s going to get a crick in his neck if he goes to sleep like that,” Gemma Farley explained, “And if he keeps on putting his head on your shoulder like that, it’s going to go numb.” She maneuvered Harry so that his legs were curled up in Sorsen’s lap, and his head was tucked up against Adrian’s chest. In a move that Harry would have never allowed awake, Harry let out a tiny, contented sigh and seemed to _melt_ into Sorsen and Adrian. 

_Is this what it feels like to have a younger brother?_ Adrian thought, looking down at Harry’s face where it was smushed into his chest. 

“—talk to George about that leg of the rune sequence,” Marcus Flint was saying. 

Adrian forced himself to focus once more. Now wasn’t the time to think about it. Still, he couldn’t resist absently running his fingers through Harry’s messy hair every so often. 

Harry woke the next morning feeling oddly well-rested. He had a vague, hazy recollection of warm, strong arms cradling him close, and then of being placed gently down onto his bed. He also dimly recalled nimble fingers adjusting his blankets, tucking him in. 

Good God, Harry thought, resisting the urge to groan. It was bad enough that he’d fallen asleep on Sorsen and Adrian. How would any of the upperclassmen take him seriously when they’d seen him being tucked in like a child? 

Harry dressed, then headed down to breakfast, avoiding eye contact with Adrian (who was heading down to breakfast as well) as he did so. Harry rather nervously approached the Gryffindor table; he wasn’t sure how any of them were going to react to his presence. There was more staring and whispering than usual, but no one told him to leave, and Parvati moved to make space for him as if there was nothing different at all. 

She was saying something about how Trelawney had predicted this, but Harry’s eyes were on Ron. Harry knew that at times Ron had expressed jealousy about all of the attention Harry got, and he was a bit worried that Ron would be a bit sore that Harry was having yet more attention piled on. 

“Rough luck, mate,” Ron told him sympathetically, and Harry felt his shoulders fall from where they’d been drawn up near his ears, as though their strings had been cut. 

“I don’t know what I would have done if I were in your place,” Neville said with a shudder. “I probably would have fainted right there and then. I can’t imagine what it was like, having to get up and walk into the Champions’ room under all those stares. And the reaction of the Champions themselves can't have been much fun for you, either." 

Harry shrugged a bit awkwardly, then turned his gaze towards the Ravenclaw table, trying to see what Hermione and Padma were thinking. Did they blame him? Think that this was his fault, that this was him being reckless in the same way that they thought that the thing with the basilisk had been reckless of him? 

Harry was pulled out of his thoughts by a warm squeeze of the hand from Parvati. “Padma told me that she doesn’t think you put your name in,” she said, and the tension rushed out of Harry’s body in a rush that left him feeling as light as a bird. 

“And Hermione?” Harry asked hopefully. 

“I saw Hermione in the library last night researching the Tournament,” Neville piped up. 

Harry bit his lip. That didn’t mean Hermione didn’t think that Harry had put his name in, or even that she wasn’t angry at him. That just meant that Hermione didn’t want him to die. Realizing what an emotional burden this must be on his friends, Harry pushed back his plate, no longer at all hungry. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that I cause you all to worry so much.” 

“You hardly choose to end up in dangerous situations,” Neville pointed out placidly, as he deftly sliced an apple. 

“I just feel like I’m getting more from our friendship than you guys are,” Harry confessed. “I don’t mean to be, but I’m a bit of a burden, aren’t I?” He laughed sadly. 

“That’s not true at all,” Ron replied at once, a stubborn set to his face. “Mate, you _saved my sister_. I think that more than makes up for us, what, caring whether or not you get hurt or not? Plus, I doubt I would have passed Potions without you as my partner, and I would have failed Astronomy if you didn’t explain things so well.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, then he closed his mouth again and shook his head. Finally, he just added, “Plus, you’re the only person I know who’s willing to listen to my rants about the Chudley Cannons, and I appreciate that.” 

Neville offered Harry a slice of apple, then when Harry refused, shrugged and bit into himself. “You have to understand, you were one of my first friends. You and Hermione stood up to Malfoy where I had never had the courage to, and it meant a lot to me. Especially because Malfoy _liked_ you— being friends with him would be easy for you. But you still chose us over him.” 

Neville finished the apple slice and started idly cutting up another apple. “When you got Sorted into Slytherin, I thought for sure that you would change your mind about us. I mean, you have to understand,” he said quickly when Harry opened his mouth to protest, “you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. And although things are a lot like that now, it used to be that Slytherins almost never had friendships outside of their house, especially not with Gryffindors.” 

“You didn’t care though,” Neville continued. “You stood up to Malfoy when he stole my Remembrall, and you listened to me about Herbology without mocking me. Even the people I sort of got along with would always mock me about liking Herbology so much, but I remember how you told me that it was ‘amazing’. I’d never heard anyone say something so nice about it, even my grandmother. I don’t think you ever really realized, but that, and just always choosing to be friends with me, did a lot for my self-esteem. Even if you can’t see how your friendship benefits you, I can assure you that it definitely does.” 

For a moment, Harry couldn’t speak. Finally, he said, “I’m glad to hear that, Neville.” 

“I feel the same as Neville,” Parvati added. “I’m used to people dismissing me for being so girly. You were the first guy I ever met who took me seriously even though I like pink and bows and pretty things. Even Padma sometimes acted like I was sort of stupid. But you never did that at all, and it meant a lot to me that you treated me like an equal, instead of like a pretty idiot. Plus, it was nice having someone around who spoke Parseltongue, too, and didn’t judge either me or Padma for it.” 

Parvati took a big sip of pumpkin juice and then added thoughtfully, “And Neville’s right. Traditionally, Slytherins never associated with people outside their house pretty much at all. Not only did you go against tradition, I think you’ve somehow managed to change it a bit as well. Ever since our second year or so, the Slytherins seem to have been a lot less aggressive towards Gryffindors. There hasn’t been anyone in the Hospital Wing for an inter-house duel all year, and I even noticed that Fred and George, unbelievable as it may be at first, seem kind of friendly with some of the Slytherin Quidditch players.” 

“You remember how at the start of last year, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy got into a fistfight in Flourish and Blotts?” Neville asked. When Harry nodded, he continued, “Well, when my grandmother was dropping me off to take the Hogwarts Express, I saw Mr. Malfoy actually give Mr. Weasley a _cordial nod_. And Mr. Weasley returned it! I mean, yeah, both of them were pretty grudging about it, but still! A year ago they were fist-fighting in a bookstore, and look at them now! I honestly think that’s because of how you handled the Chamber of Secrets. Somehow, you got everyone to realize they were basically on the same side, and frankly, I’m liking things around Hogwarts a lot better now that more people seem to think that way.” 

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” Ron agreed through a mouth full of food. “I mean, the older Slytherins have been too busy worrying over you to get into fights with Gryffindors at all, and even Malfoy has been much more tolerable. He hasn’t made any comments about my family being poor or blood traitors in ages, which for him is about the moral equivalent of anyone else donating their life savings to charity.” 

“I think what we’re trying to say, Harry, is you’ve made all our lives better, even if you didn’t realize it,” Neville said. 

"I think most of the school can't help but like you a little bit, for how you've changed Slytherin," Parvati agreed. "That's probably why no one blames you in any meaningful way for being entered into the Tournament. Plus, no offense Harry, but you looked a bit like a kicked puppy when they called your name. It's hard to imagine you _wanting_ to enter the Tournament after that reaction." 

Ron chuckled, nodding in agreement. "It also helps that you're just thirteen. Even you have enough common sense to avoid deadly tournaments until you've at least gotten a couple of OWLs under your belt." 

Feeling immensely cheered, Harry turned his attention to his food once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slytherins usually: MUST ATTACC!  
> Slytherin looking @ Harry: MUST PROTECC! 
> 
> Look, Harry finally got a hug! And some proper sleep as a result of that hug. Life is looking up for our favorite paranoid boi. 
> 
> As always, I love hearing your thoughts.


	11. encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his meeting with Mr. Maurice. He also has another encounter, one which he definitely did _not_ plan for.
> 
> cw: suicidal ideation

Over the next few days, Harry was gratified to find that attention, at least in the third year age group, was momentarily turning away from the Tournament and instead towards their first Hogsmeade trip of the year, which would be that very weekend. Rumors about different aspects of Hogsmeade were bouncing excitedly around the castle— that the Shrieking Shack was haunted, or maybe even contained a werewolf on full moons, that Zonko’s Joke Shop had updated their products to be undetectable by teachers, and that Honeydukes was going to have a Halloween sale. 

This same spirit had just as fully infected Harry’s friends, who seemed to be able to talk about little else. Parvati wanted to check out Madam Puddifoot’s, which apparently had _divine_ biscuits, Ron was waxing poetic on Zonko’s Joke Shop, and Neville was eager to check out a shop by the name of Bert’s Botanical Beauties that stocked more than a few rather rare plants. 

The Slytherins were equally as excited, although as usual, they showed it rather more subtly. Draco kept on talking about how he heard Honeydukes had recently gotten a shipment of premium Belgian chocolate he wanted to get his hands on, according to rumor Blaise was going on a date, and Tracey was eager to peruse the bookstores at Hogsmeade. 

Harry, for his part, was hardly able to think about any of the tourist attractions at Hogsmeade and instead found himself worrying over his upcoming meeting with Mr. Maurice. Mr. Maurice had given him a time and date to meet, as well as an address that they were meeting at, but that had been before Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire. He was working on the Tournament, so he could be quite angry with Harry if he thought Harry was cheating, especially since it would put the champion from Beauxbatons at a disadvantage to go against _two_ Hogwarts champions. And that wasn’t even touching upon the fact that Harry was planning on asking Mr. Maurice to help him cheat! 

Harry intentionally lingered in his dorm room so that the other Slytherin boys in his year left before him. He intended to wait in line for Filch to check his form alone so that he could better slip away unnoticed. He looked around cautiously for his friends, and when he didn’t spot them, hoped that they’d already gone through to Hogsmeade.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be incorrect. Practically as soon as he stepped into line, he heard a familiar voice calling, “Harry! There you are!” and Parvati was hurrying over, chattering about how excited she was to go to Hogsmeade, the others trailing after her at a slightly more sedate pace. 

The only mercy was that even as they clustered around him in a rather claustrophobia-inducing manner, they were still distracted; Parvati and Ron were discussing excitedly how much they’d like to visit the Shrieking Shack, and Neville and Tracey were equally invested in arguing back about how much they would _not_ like to visit the Shrieking Shack. 

Harry ducked smoothly under Ron’s arm as he waved it about to emphasize a point and slipped away to the back of the line, where he took shelter under some particularly stout boys. By the time that his friends noticed his disappearance, Filch had already ushered them through, and he wouldn’t let them back in. After some discussion, Harry’s friends agreed that Harry knew what he was doing, and he didn’t have to explore Hogsmeade with them if he didn’t want too. Harry let out a soft sigh of relief as he saw his friends continue, still arguing, to the village. 

As soon as Harry was allowed entry into Hogsmeade, he pulled his invisibility cloak over his shoulders and began looking around for the address which Mr. Maurice had indicated. First, he looked through the commercial areas, but when he couldn’t find the street Mr. Maurice had written down, he was forced to start looking through the residential area, as even under the invisibility cloak he didn’t feel comfortable lingering too long in the busy commercial areas. 

16 Elmwood Lane, 16 Elmwood Lane, 16 Elmwood, Harry chanted to himself as he scanned the street signs. Sure enough, Harry found a street sign reading “Elmwood”, indicating a neat street full of small houses. Harry scanned them hopefully, wondering if maybe one of them had been converted into a small coffee shop of some sort, but it wasn’t to be. It looked like Mr. Maurice had invited him to his own flat. 

No witnesses, Harry thought grimly, then shook his head. _I would have healed you anyway_ , he remembered Mr. Maurice saying, in that smooth, cultured voice. Oddly, Harry had believed him. Over the summer, Harry had seen the way he always tipped far more than was necessary, had listened to how Mr. Maurice always used his impeccable manners on house elf servers just as much as human ones, had even watched once as Mr. Maurice freed an alley cat who’d gotten his tail caught in a mousetrap. 

Of course, Harry still didn’t entirely believe that Mr. Maurice was telling the truth about who he was and what his motives were, and _definitely_ didn’t trust Mr. Maurice, but he got the impression that Mr. Maurice was kind when he could to afford to be. It was just Harry’s luck that being kind to him in particular always seemed too costly for adults. 

Harry took a deep breath to steel himself and pulled off his invisibility cloak. He would ask Mr. Maurice if they could meet somewhere else, he resolved. Keeping this in mind, he rapped on the front door. 

The door opened almost at once. Despite how familiar Mr. Maurice had become to Harry, he still made an odd sight now— dressed in loose cotton pants and a simple white shirt instead of his usual formal robes and black cloak, his feet bare instead of clad in their dragonhide boots. He looked vulnerable and human, yet Harry found himself instinctively taking a wary step back. 

“Come in, come in,” Mr. Maurice said, motioning with a steaming cup of tea he held in one hand. 

“Actually, I was wondering if we could meet somewhere else?” Harry asked politely. 

“I’m afraid there isn’t anywhere else private enough around here,” Mr. Maurice said, “What with all of the visitors from Hogwarts, I mean.” 

“I have an Invisibility Cloak,” Harry offered hopefully. “We could meet in the woods between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.” 

Mr. Maurice shook his head. “That won’t fit two under it, and besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea to linger outside too long, considering how unseasonably cold under it.” He tilted his head slightly, eying Harry thoughtfully. “If that’s really what you’d prefer, I could manage a Disillusionment Charm and some Warming Charms as well. Or, you could tell me what it is that makes you uncomfortable with meeting here, and I will do my best to change it.” 

They just eyed each other for a long moment. Finally, Harry said, “it’s so… secluded.”

“The woods would be as well,” Mr. Maurice pointed out mildly. 

“The woods would have an infinite number of exits,” Harry replied. 

“Ah, I see,” Mr. Maurice hummed. “No witnesses and few exits; I can see why you wouldn’t like to meet with someone you distrust here.” Harry glanced up, certain that Mr. Maurice was angry with him, but Mr. Maurice’s face looked perfectly bland, as though he didn’t blame Harry in the least for his lack of trust. 

“What if,” Mr. Maurice suggested, “I keyed you into the wards? I could make it so that no one within the wards could hurt you, not even me.” 

Harry nodded slowly. Mr. Maurice tapped one of the exposed rocks that made up the foundation of the house (the wardstone, he explained) and drew his wand in a counterclockwise motion. Then he had Harry cut his hand and allow a few drops of blood to fall upon the wardstone. 

“Ego nomen Harry Potter filius huius domus" Mr. Maurice spoke, his hands resting on Harry’s shoulders. “Tueri eum ab omnibus aliis, etiam eius propinquis."

“Now,” Mr. Maurice said with an easy smile and a ruffle of Harry’s hair, “Would you like some tea?” 

Harry stood around awkwardly as Mr. Maurice prepared the tea for him. Mr. Maurice’s flat seemed stark and a bit impersonal, which made sense seeing as he hadn’t been in the United Kingdom for long, and wouldn’t be staying for much longer, either. The most defining aspect of Mr. Maurice’s space was all of the books— the bookshelves were filled to the bursting with fat books, skinny books, tall books, short books, red books, purple books, every type of book you could possibly think of. 

Harry couldn’t help but draw a bit closer to examine some of their titles. _The Twelve Houses of the Heavens and Their Impact on Wizarding Houses_ , _Les Techniques Complexes du Métamorphage_ , _Understanding the Serpents of the Wizarding World_. Harry had just begun to flip idly through _Separating Myth from Legend: the Basilisk_ , when Mr. Maurice handed him his cup of tea, saying, “Don’t read that one, it’s utter tosh. Having spoken to someone who’s actually conversed with a basilisk himself,” he winked at Harry, “I can tell you that the author is utterly wrong on more than a few points.” 

__Harry took a cautious sip of tea and was delighted to find that it was made just as he liked it; no milk, and a single cube of sugar._ _

__“By the way,” Mr. Maurice spoke placidly, “I wanted to let you know that the first task will be dragons.”_ _

__Harry coughed harshly, tea splattering down his front. “Wh—what?”_ _

__Harry could have sworn there was a hint of mischief in Mr. Maurice’s eyes as he flicked his wand and vanished the tea from Harry’s robes. “I said,” Mr. Maurice repeated a bit louder, “that the first task will be dragons. Specifically, you will be expected to retrieve an egg from a nesting mother.”_ _

__“R—right,” Harry replied, utterly bewildered._ _

__They sat in silence for another long moment, and then Mr. Maurice said, “I saw you looking at that book on the influence of the celestial houses on the formation of wizarding families. The subject’s quite fascinating, would you like to discuss it with me?”_ _

__Harry left an hour or so later, feeling dazed and confused. His stomach was full up with tea and these wonderful French cakes that had fillings of molten chocolate and had been served with hot ice cream. Mr. Maurice had given several other books to borrow, and when Harry had asked when he wanted them back, Mr. Maurice had simply carelessly waved his hand and told Harry to take his time reading them, he was sure Harry would be busy with the matter of the Tournament and he had no desire to rush him._ _

__In total, it had left Harry with a warm feeling in his core, which was so pleasant it circled back around to be uncomfortable. Or perhaps it seemed so uncomfortable to Harry because of the way that his newfound warmth seemed to be making him rather more aware of the shard of hard ice that still seemed to be stuck within him; it felt a bit like wiggling around a splinter that had gotten stuck under the skin._ _

__Between the two of them, Harry was so distracted that he didn’t notice the Dementor approaching until it had already begun to affect him. The cold crept on him, and at the same time warmth Mr. Maurice’s kindness had brought on leached from him as though it had been no more than a passing dream, or a single ray of warm sunlight smothered to nothing on a clouded day._ _

__Harry shuddered with cold and fear. “Incendio!” he hissed, beginning to jog as he did so. There was no door to protect him from the full force of the Dementor, no one to distract it from hunting down its prey and devouring his soul. Harry’s flame flickered dimly with each step, and Harry was beginning to feel like he was running through molasses, the air as thick and heavy as a stifling blanket wrapped all around him._ _

__Despite his best efforts, Harry found himself slowly to a quick walk, unable to manage a jog for even a second longer. “Incendio!” he gasped out again. His flame sputtered back to life, then quickly dulled once more to mere embers. Harry’s core was still frozen from the last encounter with a Dementor, and it seemed to be taking much less time for the Dementor to affect him this time, as a result of it._ _

__Harry slowed to a stumbling trudge. He could feel the Dementor at his back, like a black hole sucking the light and heat of the world into its endless, gaping void. Harry was a wanderer lot in a flat wasteland of ice and cruelty. His joints had frozen long ago, and even now his blood was becoming sluggish and thick as syrup. Death stalked him with the unending tenacity of the divine, and Harry continued through nothing more than his base, animal instincts._ _

_Why do you fight me,_ Death asked in a kind voice. _I have the ones who loved you and you loved, as well; if you die, you will be cleansed of the sins that taint those who try to love you, and you will be able to be reunited with your family._

__Something warm and vitally important was unlodging itself from Harry’s chest, floating unsteadily up towards his throat. Harry swallowed compulsively, tasting cinnamon and honey and sea salt, mixed with a hint of coppery heat like fresh blood._ _

_I know it scares you,_ Death crooned, _but it is a silly, animal fear. It is the fear of justice, of retribution; your unlovability is your punishment and your crime, but once you die your sentence will be served, and you will be able to be with your family once more._

Death took a long, deep breath, and Harry felt the warm thing stir where it sat in the back of his throat. _Come with me,_ Death told him. _Come with me, and be free. No animal may accept death; accepting death is the closest to the divine any human will ever get. Leave behind those who do not love you and become someone worthy of what you yearn for._

Death’s voice twisted like a hook ripping deep into Harry’s flesh. _They will not miss you._

__They _would_ , Harry found himself thinking. Hermione had gotten so angry with him because she thought he might someday die from not asking for help. And the Slytherins were the same way, always becoming agitated over even silly things like bludgers and hippogriffs. Mr. Maurice had healed his ribs and protected him from the hag, and then later asked about his health and betrayed his country to help Harry. Even Mad Eye Moody had given him hot chocolate and let him leave early. _ _

_But you’re a burden on them,_ Death said, voice sounding a bit reedy. 

__His friends had just a few days before talked about how much they liked him and how he wasn’t a burden on them, Harry reminded himself, and then, with a tremendous force of will, shouted, “INCENDIO!”_ _

__The Dementor reared back, shrieking and flapping as it struggled to put its robes out, and Harry scrambled to his feet, then dashed off through the trees to the castle as fast as he could. He was running off of so much adrenaline that he didn’t even bother to duck most of the low-hanging branches. He only just had enough presence of mind to pull his invisibility cloak on before sprinting past an irate, shouting Filch who groped around through the air as though he had any chance of grabbing him. Harry ducked into the first bathroom he could find in the castle, locking the door behind him and collapsing to the unpleasantly damp floor._ _

__It was only now that Harry felt the sting of the many slashes littering his face. His lungs were burning, and his entire upper chest felt stiff with ice. With numb, stiff fingers, Harry yanked off his robes and peered at himself in the mirror. Black tendrils curled outward from the very center of his chest. Harry gingerly brushed his fingers over the center of the tendrils and had to bite back a cry of pain at how cold it was— so frigid that it open seemed to burn with heat._ _

__“Fuck,” Harry breathed. Now that he looked in the mirror, he wasn’t looking so hot in general. His lips were bluish purple from the cold, as were the tips of his fingers. A few stray tears had frozen to his cheeks, and the blood from his scrapes was freezing instead of actually clotting._ _

__Harry swayed, black momentarily consuming his vision. He braced himself against the sink with one hand and patted at his pockets with the other until he found a bar of chocolate. Ripping the wrapper off with his teeth, he gobbled the chocolate down so fast that his stomach spasmed and for a moment he thought he might throw up and waste the precious chocolate. Luckily, however, it seemed to be staying down. Harry could feel its warmth spreading through him slowly, dulling the edge of the cold slightly and driving the black back from his vision. Still, it wasn’t anywhere near enough. He patted all of his pockets again, but couldn’t find anymore; he’d eaten all of it earlier in the day and hadn’t remembered to pick up more at Honeydukes as had been his plan._ _

__“Dobby!” he called, bracing himself on the sink. “Could you please bring me some chocolate?”_ _

__There was no response. Swearing, Harry quickly swung the invisibility cloak back over his shoulders and started limping towards the kitchens, leaning heavily on the wall as he did so. Every so often, he was forced to stop and take a long moment to take deep breaths, as the ice crusting his chest was making it impossible to take proper breaths while walking._ _

__Once Harry reached the kitchens, he drank endless cups of hot chocolate until his stomach felt like it was going to burst, and the blue had retreated from his fingers and lips. His chest still wasn’t back to normal, but at least it was now a sort of purple-blue instead of that dead-looking black, and he could almost draw in full breaths again._ _

__“Would Master Harry Potter like Mipsy to fetch Madam Pomfrey for him?” a polite, high pitched voice from behind him asked as she set down another mug full of steaming hot chocolate._ _

__Harry stared at her, his head dipping slightly from exhaustion as he tried to force his sluggish mind to catch on. Tell Pomfrey… Hadn’t today been hard enough? Did he have to deal with Pomfrey too? His breathing was getting shallow and his vision was going grey again. Have Pomfrey know… see him… like this… vulnerable, unable to defend himself… Harry abruptly realized that he was shaking his head, shaking it so hard that his glasses had flown off._ _

__“Yes, Master Harry,” Mipsy said, her large eyes solemn as she handed Harry his glasses. “Mipsy will tell the other house elves that they are not to tell anyone, either.”_ _

__Harry nodded gratefully, then turned his unfocused eyes towards the hot chocolate. He had almost died, he registered dimly. And judging by the state of his chest, there was something seriously wrong with him. But… he just _couldn’t_ tell anyone about it. He knew he should, knew that the Slytherins would be so disappointed with him if they ever found out, but it just— he was already so far beyond his limits. _ _

__Later, Harry promised himself dully, but even he doubted he would uphold that promise._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that you guys are probably terribly frustrated with Harry and his decisions, but I really do think he's trying, and he is (slowly) improving. I know I could write him as changing more quickly, but that just doesn't feel honest to his arc, especially because in my experience, recovery is a very long and difficult process, often with a lot of setbacks. 
> 
> Latin translation for people on mobile: "I name Harry Potter the son of this house. Protect him from all others, even his own family members." 
> 
> I may post a second chapter this week, but we'll have to see. As always, I love hearing your thoughts and I read every comment at least once (usually more lol) even if I don't reply.


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